Title: Trust it's a Game (3/?)
Warning: Torture, eventual noncon
Word Count: 1,702
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Doyle, Sherlock belongs to BBC
Summary: Moriarty finds a way to torture Sherlock by forcing him to torture John.
Author's Notes: Still working on Runs in the family. And have been working on later chapters of this. Woo this is a tough one. So please watch the warning.
NOTE: Chapter two has been revised! It was missing something and I realized it was Moriarty. You can read this fine without it but if you wanted Moriarty . . . well he's there. :)
Everything hurt. Different from Afganistan, where pain had been focused and sharp. This was a full body throbbing with his pulse.
He had been left alone after Sherlock’s visit. His hands thankfully left untied, though his right one useless. He had spent nearly half an hour painstakingly inching his jumper off his arm between puffs of breath and groans of pain. Eventually he was able to remove it, grateful he had chosen the loose lumpy one the day before. Then it was a matter of wrapping his undershirt round to hold his arm to his chest. It hurt like hell. The bones surely not in the right position, as much as he shifted it, but it was immobilized and clamped against his chest. He’d need surgery to set the break when they got out of this. When.
John wasn’t so thick that he didn’t understand Moriarty was playing another game. Wasn’t so trusting that he wouldn’t be able to see past his affection if the detective ever decided to abuse him. But this was wrong. It tingled in his subconscious, little sparks of worry, little trails of anxiousness. Whatever his lover’s nemesis had in mind it was meant to dig in deep and nettle its way into their minds. These wounds were meant to fester into something else entirely. John let his head rest on his knees, pinning his arm protectively between his legs and chest. Moriarty wasn’t sending Sherlock dashing about London this time around, he was performing open brain surgery. And John felt so goddamn useless. Was this his curse? To be the tool to cut Sherlock to pieces?
Not if he could help it.
John forced his body to relax. Pushing the tension out of his fingertips and urging his muscles to loosen. He needed to gather himself, to be ready when they made their move. Sherlock needed him to be ready.
Moriarty gently cradled Sherlock jaw in his palm, the detective’s stomach turned as he realized he was mimicking Sherlock holding John’s face the day before. Had it been a day already? He strained his neck to remove his chin from the bastard’s fingers. Moriarty just smiled before turning to look through to John’s room. The doctor had been still for hours. Not sleeping but a sort of forced restful state, with his eyes closed and his good hand resting in his lap. Almost as if he were meditating though Sherlock had never seen him do so before. He looked better. He hadn’t yet put his jumper back on since pulling it mostly off yesterday, it had been hell watching him struggle with it. It hung around his shoulders like an oversized scarf, still draped through one arm, though loose and sliding off.
“I’ve been trying to decide what your next little project should be.” Moriarty’s eyes ran over John, they twinkled with excitement. “The break was fun.” He turned so he could watch Sherlock’s expression. “Though you did make quick work of it. His face was absolutely priceless!” Moriarty twisted his expression to one of shock, eyebrows pinched together much like John’s, though Sherlock could say with relief it reminded him nothing of the man. Moriarty couldn’t mimic John’s eyes. “Sherlock-“ but he could mimic his voice right down to the gasp of pain. Sherlock cursed himself for flinching, for giving the mastermind exactly what he wanted. Moriarty cackled, his head thrown back dramatically as he brought his hands to his stomach. “You two are a piece of work!” His face fell as he watched Sherlock, eyes wide as if he were reading him. There were these moments where Moriarty dropped his act. His mask fell to reveal him as he truly is, pure calculating evil. He looked through Sherlock like he was studying the eternal workings of a clock that he was about to dismantle. It was unsettling to say the least.
“I thought we might use one of my toys this time around.” Moriarty hopped up on the table and gestured to one of his ever present thugs. He ambled over instantly a black bag held in his massive hand. “I’m trying to keep a nice progression going. You know work up to the good stuff.” He winked at Sherlock, his smile twisting up the side of his mouth. Fear trickled from the base of Sherlock’s skull at what the ‘good stuff’ could possibly entail. “I think a little blood this go around is in order, what do you say Sherlock?” The thug pulled out a long leather whip and Sherlock’s heart fell somewhere into his stomach. “You can speak Sherlock. The rule only applies to Johnny boy.” He was grinning at him now, letting his fingers curl absently around the rough leather of the whip.
Sherlock attempted indifference, forcing a bored look at the weapon. But he knew he was failing. “What’s the point of all this?” He set cool eyes to bore into Moriarty’s. “You have me torture John and then what Jim? It seems a lot of wasted energy for little result. You could use me for any number of things and here you let my brain rot away in trivialities? I thought you were intelligent enough to use your tools for their rightful purposes.”
Moriarty’s smile grew bigger, a feat that seemed impossible. He slid off the table and leaned into Sherlock’s face, his lips hovering over the detectives. “Ooo nice try Sherlock!” His voice was a purr as his lips grazed Sherlock’s before he pulled himself up again. “What better use can I put you to but to have you destroy yourself? And how better to do that then to watch you destroy John Watson.” He turned to John sitting against the wall. “Yes I think the whip will do nicely.” He spun the handle in his hands before dropping it in Sherlock’s lap. “Eight lashes we’ll say. On his back of course. I want each to bleed or you’ll have to do it over again.” Sherlock was hauled up by one of the men and shoved toward the door. “Same rules apply. And come Sherlock have a bit of fun would you?”
John opened his eyes at the sound of the door. Sherlock stood with a whip in a white knuckled fist. He looked worse than he had ever seen him. His skin was far too pale and lines dug into the smooth flesh under his eyes. John’s skin tingled with apprehension and his chest tightened at the look on the detective’s face. John could read Sherlock, had been able to instinctively, nearly from the beginning. And what he saw skirting behind his lover’s eyes made his heart ache. Sherlock was falling apart and they had barely begun this game.
He blinked and the detective was kneeling in front of him again. John watched his face as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him hands carefully sliding the jumper further up. He let his forehead rest against John’s as he pulled the undershirt up to reveal more bruised flesh. John couldn’t suppress the gasp as the material tugged at his arm. The undershirt was left to rest across his shoulders. Sherlock hands stilled then at John’s sides, fingers light on his skin. He looked far away, his eyes clouded with emotion.
“It’s not your fault.” It was whispered through John’s lips but lacked none of his army bread authority. He let his free hand roam to Sherlock’s slacked fingers and squeezed them reassuringly. “Ok let’s get on with it shall we?” He gritted his teeth and pulled away. Sherlock’s eyes widened as John shuffled, turning in the detective’s hands until his face was toward the wall and his spine open to the room. “He wants a fucking whipping we’ll give him one.” Sherlock looked down at John’s exposed back now between his knees. His mind flashing to those instances when he had admired it before, another time John had been vulnerable before him and he had first run his hands against the hidden skin, tracing scars and birthmarks with his fingers. He shook the thought away, not wishing to link that moment to this. But it was impossible. How would they survive this if they couldn’t escape their own minds? “It’s not you it’s him.” John’s voice startled him back to the present. He had a sudden urge to kiss the protruding vertebrae but thought better of it. He got back to his shaking feet and practiced swishing the whip a bit to his side, it smacked the air and pricked their ears. John didn’t flinch. “Just get it over with alright?”
Sherlock swallowed the bile rising up his throat and let the whip fall hard, trying to gauge the pressure it would take to open the skin and what areas were better suited for it. John jolted but then let his breath out through clenched teeth. The whip left a clean red strip from shoulder to hip. It bled mostly near his spine, oozing slowly down his back. He let the whip fall again, not willing to torture John with waiting for it. The second strip was smaller, he had used less pressure and it still bled. Good. It wasn’t until the fifth lash that John’s breathing became haggard. The noise started Sherlock out of focus and suddenly his senses were flooded with John’s hitched breath, his trembling arms, and the blood now gathering at the back of his trousers. The sixth lash fell, leaving a dark maroon welt but it didn’t bleed. Sherlock nearly fell to his knees at the sight. That lash would be purely his doing. He had caused John that extra hurt. Obscenities built behind his teeth but he chocked them back. The last three lashes were finished as fast as he dared. John had slumped into his knees but remained sitting. His back glistened in the light and Sherlock felt he might be sick. He threw the whip as far away from himself as he could manage but his hands felt just as filthy. “Sherlock.” John’s voice was calm though strained. “Listen to me alright? It’s not-“ John heard the door thud shut behind him and buried his face in his hand.