Chapter Text
John woke uncomfortably, with his hands bound behind his back and a throbbing pain in his head. He blinked stars of light out of his vision and groaned as he pulled himself to a sitting position on the cold concrete floor that he’d presumably been dumped on. His memories were hazy. He could remember a long day at work, coming back to the flat, going for Chinese with Sherlock…
Sherlock.
John was suddenly wide-awake and turning in every direction, scanning the large warehouse-like room for his flat mate. He wasn’t sure if he felt relief or dread settle low in his stomach when his eyes fixed on a figure, dark haired and tall, sprawled a few feet behind him.
John ignored the pain in his head and his still swimming vision, and scooted along the floor to sit beside Sherlock. He nudged him gently with his elbow. “Sherlock,” he said, his voice low. “Hey, Sherlock. Come on now…”
The detective beneath him began to stir. His hands were tied behind his back as well and his struggle to sit up made John wish that he could simply reach down and pull him up. John could see his eyes clear as he became aware of his surroundings. The confusion was gone, and replaced by a look of annoyance.
More emotions flooded Sherlock’s face for a split second as his eyes connected with John’s and he realized that he wasn’t alone. “All right?” John asked, leaning forward slightly.
Sherlock gave a low groan and shook his head. “Fine,” he said shortly. “Does your head…”
“Feel as though it’s been stomped on?” John offered. “Yes, definitely.”
Sherlock nodded to himself. “Knocked out and drugged then.”
“You’re not even on a case. Who would want us?”
Sherlock raised one eyebrow in an act that had no right to look so elegant in such a grim situation.
“No,” John breathed.
“Moriarty,” Sherlock confirmed. “That would be my guess.”
“Your guesses are usually correct.”
“They are.”
“Fuck,” John muttered before he could help himself.
“Fuck, indeed,” Sherlock agreed, the word sounding out of place in his smooth voice.
When John started to speak again he was interrupted by the loud opening of a door at the far end of the room. As he had feared, Moriarty approached them, clad in a dark grey suit and expensive shoes that clicked as he walked across the floor.
“Welcome, welcome!” he said. A grin spread over his face and he fixed his gaze on Sherlock. “It’s ever so good to see you.”
“I can’t say the same,” Sherlock growled.
“What do you want, Moriarty?” John asked, his voice flat and dry.
Moriarty turned to John and his expression visibly darkened. “Don’t you speak,” he said, pointing a finger at John. “You’re not here to speak. You’re not worthy of speaking.” Moriarty’s words were so filled with hatred that John held his tongue and settled for a sharp glare in response.
“What do you want?” Sherlock said, sparing a quick glance at John. “I assume you have plans.”
“You’ve assumed correctly,” Moriarty said, clasping his hands in front of his chest. “I’ve been bored lately, you see. Bored with this silly game that we’re playing. So I thought, hey!” His voice echoed throughout the room. “Let’s take it up a notch.”
Moriarty’s look of untapped glee caused fear to settle low in John’s stomach. He pulled desperately at the ropes that held his hands behind his back, but they didn’t loosen. A quick look showed that Sherlock was also tugging at his own ties.
Moriarty caught John’s look and followed it to Sherlock. Upon seeing Sherlock pulling his hands slightly apart Moriarty gave Sherlock’s hands a sharp kick. “Now, now, Sherlock,” he said as Sherlock fell over, unable to brace himself. He sat slowly back up, his face devoid of emotion or pain.
“Lestrade will come for us,” Sherlock said, his face stoic, as though he wasn’t worried in the slightest.
“Will he? You weren’t on a case. He doesn’t know where you are. Goodness, he doesn’t even know that you’re missing.”
“Mrs. Hudson will notice and call,” Sherlock pressed on.
“Ah, I doubt that.” Moriarty’s grin turned downwards. “You two are on a date, remember?”
John furrowed his brow in confusion, but Sherlock didn’t react.
“Sherlock, you took your little pet out for dinner. For a date. There’s nothing odd about that. No one will question it. We’ve got all night before anyone thinks anything of it.” Moriarty’s smile was back now, and wider than ever.
“Not his date,” John grumbled largely out of habit.
Moriarty snarled and kicked John roughly in the softness of his abdomen. He exhaled sharply but held his yell in.
“I told you to shut up!” Moriarty said, his voice rising to a shout.
Sherlock flinched and started to shift towards Moriarty but he stopped when the man turned to him. With his hands tied firmly behind his back he had no defenses anyway.
“Interesting,” Moriarty said, looking at John and then to Sherlock. He kicked John again, more softly this time, but still hard enough for John to double over. Again Sherlock couldn’t help but flinch. It was slight, barely noticeable at all, but of course Moriarty saw it.
“Leave John out of this,” Sherlock growled. “This is not about John.”
“Oh, I think it is very much about John.” Moriarty smirked, stepping away from John and staring down at him. “I want to hurt you, Sherlock….”
“Then do it. Hurt me,” Sherlock said, a little too quickly.
“I believe I have found,” Moriarty paused, reaching down to slap John roughly across the face. The hit echoed throughout the large room. Sherlock closed his eyes. Tried to collect his thoughts. John gritted his teeth. “That hurting John is hurting you.”
“You’re wrong,” Sherlock said, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
“Am I?” Moriarty asked, arching his eyebrow.
“I feel nothing for John Watson. He is convenient; that’s all.”
“I don’t quite believe you.”
“I feel nothing,” Sherlock said coldly. “Like you.”
John tried to ignore the chill that he felt at Sherlock’s words. This was an act. Just an act, surely. Because he knew Sherlock. He knew that he was nothing like Moriarty. His mind stopped having time to wander when Moriarty took a step closer to his spot on the ground.
“If you don’t care about John Watson, then you won’t care if I do this…” There was a short pause of silence and suddenly Moriarty was kicking John with such force that he couldn’t draw a breath. Each kick grew more forceful than the last. John fell backwards onto the ground and curled into himself, but he couldn’t completely shield his stomach from the blows. He felt something, a rib, crack deep in his chest. He could hear yelling from somewhere in the distance. Maybe it was Sherlock. Or Moriarty. Maybe he was hearing his own cries of pain. It was impossible to know. The pain was dull now, far away. He could feel the pressure of the kicks, but the pain was fading. Bit not good. His vision was growing blurry and muted when the attack finally stopped. He rolled onto his back and tried to draw steady breaths. As he returned gradually to full consciousness, the pain returned as well and everything was bruised and throbbing.
“Stop it. Stop this. It’s not about John. This doesn’t concern John. This is between you and I. Kick me. It’s about me. His death will only inconvenience you. It wouldn’t…”
“Quiet!” Moriarty roared, cutting off Sherlock’s desperate ramblings. “As I’ve said, I have reason to believe that you do care about the wellbeing of your pet.”
“Do anything you want to me, Moriarty,” Sherlock said. “Whatever you…”
John’s breathing was ragged but he forced words from his lips. “Sherlock,” he interrupted, weakly. “Quiet.”
“John,” Sherlock’s eyes connected with John’s and he fell silent.
“Touching,” Moriarty said, stepping between them and breaking their eye contact. “This is adorable, really. You know, I think we’re really going to have a nice time.”