Re: Multiples FILL 4/?
anonymous
May 19 2011, 02:10:28 UTC
On the table, John shuffles. The drug is indeed wearing off, but he’s still as weak as a kitten. There are two others, from what Sherlock can make out. They’re tall and dressed in black combats and balaclavas. Their bearing is military. Mercenaries, then, or thrown out of the army in disgrace. They’re too young to have been retired, and there’s no sign of injury that would have had them sent home early.
One pins John down, the other stretches out one of John’s arms, holding a dark metal hammer that is solid at one end and clawed at the other. The design used to hammer nails into fences, or pull them out. It’s larger, and looks heavier, than is standard.
Moriarty’s chuckles are the background noise to John’s struggles and shouts. The camera wobbles as Moriarty moves closer. He zooms in on John’s face, which fills the screen, panicked and frightened and still fighting.
“They’re doing his right hand first,” says Moriarty by way of commentary, zooming out to get a better picture. One of the mercenaries, the one pinning John down with sick grin on his face, gurgles with laughter.
I will find you and kill each and every one of you in ways so horrific that
Sherlock leans on the backspace. That won’t do.
John’s right hand is splayed palm down on the table, trying to clench back into a fist, but the hammer comes down hard over the back of his knuckles and that crunching, of bones and tendons, in unmistakeable. John yells in pain, short lasting, and his face is blank, eyes clear and wide. Detached. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and he looks in danger of hyperventilating.
Crunch.
Crack.
“Each and every finger,” says Moriarty in a stage whisper, over the splinter of bone and John’s barely repressed cries of pain.
On to the next hand, and the man holding John down releases him slightly to move position, and John takes advantage, rolling to the side and fiercely elbowing the man in the neck.
“Oh!” screams Moriarty in delight. “He’s so fucking vicious! Weren’t you housetrained, pet?”
John is wrestled back down with disheartening ease, shouting obscenities at Moriarty.
“Can we gag him or something? Jesus,” snarled the man who was struck, his neck bruising already.
“Later,” says Moriarty. “Next hand!”
“No,” hisses John, louder than before. “No, no … get the hell off of me!”
Moriarty is giggling. “He’s adorable. I’m growing quite attached. Are you watching closely, Sherlock?”
Sherlock has a notepad open. He’s trying to type down details of the room as he sees them, things he notices, anything, really, that will help deduce the location. As Moriarty promised, there’s nothing much to go on. Not yet, anyway. Everyone makes mistakes.
The hammer thuds against John’s hand, smashes into soft flesh and muscle, splinters bones (the irregular carpel bones of the wrist, the metacarpals, the delicate phalanges of his fingers) and John’s given up on attempting stoical silence. He grunts with pain on every blow.
Sherlock fingers a bandage wrapped carefully and professionally around his upper arm, covering a cut from a machete-wielding thug Sherlock had been chasing. He remembers John’s fussing, clever hands cleaning and taking the pain away, readying the wound to be healed.
The man breaking John’s hand finishes, and drops the blood-spattered hammer to the floor.
“He’s a proper cripple now,” teases Moriarty, moving in closer, the camera shaking as he laughs. John stares at the ceiling, utterly broken.
Re: Multiples FILL 4/?morganstuartMay 19 2011, 11:00:24 UTC
Heartbreakingly amazing. I'm pretty sure John wouldn't have made this choice for himself (although I understand Sherlock wants him alive at all costs, even if John doesn't), which makes it all the more wrenching...
Re: Multiples FILL 4/?
anonymous
May 20 2011, 01:42:47 UTC
Oh good God. His HANDS.
What gets me most, though, is not the physical torture but the sheer cruelty of it all. Making Sherlock choose. And then calling John "a proper cripple" -- that was so, so clearly designed to HURT. Moriarty is out to really wound both of them here.
One pins John down, the other stretches out one of John’s arms, holding a dark metal hammer that is solid at one end and clawed at the other. The design used to hammer nails into fences, or pull them out. It’s larger, and looks heavier, than is standard.
Moriarty’s chuckles are the background noise to John’s struggles and shouts. The camera wobbles as Moriarty moves closer. He zooms in on John’s face, which fills the screen, panicked and frightened and still fighting.
“They’re doing his right hand first,” says Moriarty by way of commentary, zooming out to get a better picture. One of the mercenaries, the one pinning John down with sick grin on his face, gurgles with laughter.
I will find you and kill each and every one of you in ways so horrific that
Sherlock leans on the backspace. That won’t do.
John’s right hand is splayed palm down on the table, trying to clench back into a fist, but the hammer comes down hard over the back of his knuckles and that crunching, of bones and tendons, in unmistakeable. John yells in pain, short lasting, and his face is blank, eyes clear and wide. Detached. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and he looks in danger of hyperventilating.
Crunch.
Crack.
“Each and every finger,” says Moriarty in a stage whisper, over the splinter of bone and John’s barely repressed cries of pain.
On to the next hand, and the man holding John down releases him slightly to move position, and John takes advantage, rolling to the side and fiercely elbowing the man in the neck.
“Oh!” screams Moriarty in delight. “He’s so fucking vicious! Weren’t you housetrained, pet?”
John is wrestled back down with disheartening ease, shouting obscenities at Moriarty.
“Can we gag him or something? Jesus,” snarled the man who was struck, his neck bruising already.
“Later,” says Moriarty. “Next hand!”
“No,” hisses John, louder than before. “No, no … get the hell off of me!”
Moriarty is giggling. “He’s adorable. I’m growing quite attached. Are you watching closely, Sherlock?”
Sherlock has a notepad open. He’s trying to type down details of the room as he sees them, things he notices, anything, really, that will help deduce the location. As Moriarty promised, there’s nothing much to go on. Not yet, anyway. Everyone makes mistakes.
The hammer thuds against John’s hand, smashes into soft flesh and muscle, splinters bones (the irregular carpel bones of the wrist, the metacarpals, the delicate phalanges of his fingers) and John’s given up on attempting stoical silence. He grunts with pain on every blow.
Sherlock fingers a bandage wrapped carefully and professionally around his upper arm, covering a cut from a machete-wielding thug Sherlock had been chasing. He remembers John’s fussing, clever hands cleaning and taking the pain away, readying the wound to be healed.
The man breaking John’s hand finishes, and drops the blood-spattered hammer to the floor.
“He’s a proper cripple now,” teases Moriarty, moving in closer, the camera shaking as he laughs. John stares at the ceiling, utterly broken.
The feed switches off.
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*Looks at heart on floor* look at that! *Points* that's my heart! On the floor!! It just dropped out!!
You are amazing. Thank you, thank you THANK YOU!!!
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I'm so glad you're the one filling this prompt, Anon. *salutes you and your marvelous fic*
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We're only just getting started too.
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What gets me most, though, is not the physical torture but the sheer cruelty of it all. Making Sherlock choose. And then calling John "a proper cripple" -- that was so, so clearly designed to HURT. Moriarty is out to really wound both of them here.
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