Moriarty takes his time approaching Lestrade, allowing his soft footfalls to echo around the room. Sherlock shuts him out. Slowly, he flexes the muscles in his calf, tries to wriggle his ankles, but the rope tying him down stops almost all movement. His cuffed wrists, too, are nearly immobilized. His arms are stretched so tautly above his head that his shoulder joints are already aching. Right. Other means of escape. He shifts, trying to feel the mobile in his pocket, but someone has removed it.
All right. He just needs to think.
Moriarty is kneeling on the floor, practically in Lestrade's lap; Lestrade is looking straight past him, gaze focused on the far wall, a muscle knotted in his jaw. He meets Sherlock's eyes and quickly looks away. With a giggle, Moriarty produces a knife from inside his suit and taps Lestrade on the nose, and the inspector's eyeline flies immediately to his face. "Pay attention," Moriarty admonishes. He edges the blade underneath Lestrade's collar. Sherlock sees Lestrade swallow, and then Moriarty starts slicing off his shirt.
The cuts are haphazard, random. Tiny spots of blood well through the crisp white cloth whenever the knife changes direction. Moriarty sends a button flying with a gleeful flick of his wrist, and the clatter as it rolls across the floor is unnaturally loud.
The shirt peels off like a husk, exposing the tan lines from the t-shirts that Lestrade wears off duty, the paunch just beginning to creep up on an athletic torso, the white cobwebbed lines where the knife has barely grazed his skin. The awkward position of having his hands cuffed above him has hollowed a small dip beneath his ribcage and pushed his sternum forward. Sherlock can see the rise and fall of his chest, breathing slightly accelerated. The faint lines of red where Moriarty put an extra hint of pressure on the blade.
He raises the knife again, hovering over the thin streaks of blood without pressing down. Tracing them in midair. With intent concentration, he presses the flat of the blade against Lestrade's skin and smears the blood over his chest -- like butter over bread, like a wash of red paint. Moriarty slides the edge of the knife up the other man's breastbone and lightly over his neck to rest underneath his chin. With the point, he tips Lestrade's head up. Caresses his jawline with cold metal and moves it softly down his arm, where he uses it to lift the edge of the nicotine patch Lestrade is wearing. The flesh-colored patch looks uncomfortably like a thin flap of skin. Sherlock can see gooseflesh on Lestrade's arms.
"Still trying to quit, Inspector?" There is a smile in Moriarty's voice as he circles the nicotine patch with one fingertip. He lays the knife down and fumbles in the pockets of his suit. After a moment, he comes up with a pack of cigarettes; he raises one to his lips and lights it, blowing the smoke in Lestrade's face. Sherlock watches the detective's eyes flutter shut as he takes a deep breath.
"Let me help you with that," Moriarty says, and presses the lighted tip to Lestrade's skin.
Lestrade gasps and jerks, fingers clenching and opening spasmodically inside the handcuffs. Moriarty draws back like an artist contemplating a canvas. He cocks his head, cigarette dangling from his fingers, and eyes the perfectly round mark just beneath Lestrade's collarbone. Then, horribly methodical, he re-lights the cigarette and stubs it out on the thin skin covering Lestrade's ribs.
The inspector twists in his bonds, breathing raggedly through his nose, but this time Moriarty holds the cigarette in place. Lestrade's skin is charring. Sherlock can smell it.
I am on the EDGE OF MY SEAT here! OMG! Moriarty is so evil. He's like a cat playing with a mouse. The little things he's doing - spreading out the blood over Lestrade's chest, blowing the smoke in his face - are just for his amusement, his play, and that makes him all the more creepy!
I love Lestrade here, trying to be quiet, looking away from Sherlock, stoic and holding it together. These are really great descriptions. I can just see the gooseflesh on his arms.
The cigarette? EVIL!!!! The minute Moriarty fixated on the patch, I was thinking "Oh no..."
I feel so much for Sherlock. His options are so limited, and even though he knows he should shut out what's happening and think, he's really emotionally invested in what's happening to Lestrade, and he can't help but watch. AUGH. Just wonderful. I can't wait for more! *bounces*
All right. He just needs to think.
Moriarty is kneeling on the floor, practically in Lestrade's lap; Lestrade is looking straight past him, gaze focused on the far wall, a muscle knotted in his jaw. He meets Sherlock's eyes and quickly looks away. With a giggle, Moriarty produces a knife from inside his suit and taps Lestrade on the nose, and the inspector's eyeline flies immediately to his face. "Pay attention," Moriarty admonishes. He edges the blade underneath Lestrade's collar. Sherlock sees Lestrade swallow, and then Moriarty starts slicing off his shirt.
The cuts are haphazard, random. Tiny spots of blood well through the crisp white cloth whenever the knife changes direction. Moriarty sends a button flying with a gleeful flick of his wrist, and the clatter as it rolls across the floor is unnaturally loud.
The shirt peels off like a husk, exposing the tan lines from the t-shirts that Lestrade wears off duty, the paunch just beginning to creep up on an athletic torso, the white cobwebbed lines where the knife has barely grazed his skin. The awkward position of having his hands cuffed above him has hollowed a small dip beneath his ribcage and pushed his sternum forward. Sherlock can see the rise and fall of his chest, breathing slightly accelerated. The faint lines of red where Moriarty put an extra hint of pressure on the blade.
He raises the knife again, hovering over the thin streaks of blood without pressing down. Tracing them in midair. With intent concentration, he presses the flat of the blade against Lestrade's skin and smears the
blood over his chest -- like butter over bread, like a wash of red paint. Moriarty slides the edge of the knife up the other man's breastbone and lightly over his neck to rest underneath his chin. With the point, he tips Lestrade's head up. Caresses his jawline with cold metal and moves it softly down his arm, where he uses it to lift the edge of the nicotine patch Lestrade is wearing. The flesh-colored patch looks uncomfortably like a thin flap of skin. Sherlock can see gooseflesh on Lestrade's arms.
"Still trying to quit, Inspector?" There is a smile in Moriarty's voice as he circles the nicotine patch with one fingertip. He lays the knife down and fumbles in the pockets of his suit. After a moment, he comes up with a pack of cigarettes; he raises one to his lips and lights it, blowing the smoke in Lestrade's face. Sherlock watches the detective's eyes flutter shut as he takes a deep breath.
"Let me help you with that," Moriarty says, and presses the lighted tip to Lestrade's skin.
Lestrade gasps and jerks, fingers clenching and opening spasmodically inside the handcuffs. Moriarty draws back like an artist contemplating a canvas. He cocks his head, cigarette dangling from his fingers, and eyes the perfectly round mark just beneath Lestrade's collarbone. Then, horribly methodical, he re-lights the cigarette and stubs it out on the thin skin covering Lestrade's ribs.
The inspector twists in his bonds, breathing raggedly through his nose, but this time Moriarty holds the cigarette in place. Lestrade's skin is charring. Sherlock can smell it.
Think.
Reply
I love Lestrade here, trying to be quiet, looking away from Sherlock, stoic and holding it together. These are really great descriptions. I can just see the gooseflesh on his arms.
The cigarette? EVIL!!!! The minute Moriarty fixated on the patch, I was thinking "Oh no..."
I feel so much for Sherlock. His options are so limited, and even though he knows he should shut out what's happening and think, he's really emotionally invested in what's happening to Lestrade, and he can't help but watch. AUGH. Just wonderful. I can't wait for more! *bounces*
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment