Title: The Way to the Heart
Disclaimer: Sherlock is owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.
Summary: slash, (post TGG), S/J, SPOILERS, sequel to 'Normal Needs', It has already been months since their fatal meeting, but Moriarty makes good on his threat to Sherlock.
Rating: M
Warnings: torture, kidnapping, angst, non-con/rape, violence, hurt/comfort,
Pairings: SherlockxJohn, MoriartyxJohn, OMCxJohn
Word Count: 1,601
Author's Note: Originally, this was going to be a totally different story, but after I wrote 'Normal Needs', it just seemed to fit, so this is the sequel to it. For those who don't know what Moriarty's threat was, go watch the episode, or continue reading if you don't want to go watch it just yet. Enjoy.
xXx
"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone Sherlock…to you?"
"Oh, let me guess, I get killed."
"Kill you, uh, no, don't be obvious. I mean I'm going to kill you anyways, someday. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying…I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you!"
The room was nothing but dim shadows, the only source of light coming from the many machines that beeped and vibrated, their buttons blinking and their screens giving readouts of the body they were connected to.
The noise is low and steady, easily pushed to the background as he stares at the pale man in the bed, strung up in wires and tubes, bandages wrapping around most of his body. In his mind, he went over the memorized hospital report, torturing himself with the information, knowing he didn't deserve to be forgiven for this. Twenty-seven stitches needed to repair anal tearing, fifteen to close the gash running down the inside of his right thigh, a few inches short of where his groin met leg. He'd been lucky that they hadn't cut higher, where the artery that ran through his leg and groin had lain.
A broken wrist and knee, three broken ribs, two fractured and one bruised. Rope burns around his wrists and ankles, the skin rubbed raw from his struggles to escape. His skin was a grotesque canvas, bruises changing color according to severity of whatever it was they had hit him with.
Two spots of internal bleeding, more stitches from where they had to open him up to get to the bleeds. A concussion and a split lip, a light bruise coming up on his cheek, they had left his face alone, allowing him to see and scream as they had tortured him.
"John?" He called out, undoing his scarf from around his neck and chucking it and his coat onto a peg haphazardly.
"Oh, Sherlock, there you are." Ms. Hudson came up the stair towards him. "This just arrived for you." She handed him a manila envelope, his name written in an elegant scrawl across it.
"Thank you, Ms. Hudson. Have you seen John?" He asked, moving towards the kitchen to make some tea.
"Ah, no dear. I think he left before I got back from doing the shopping. I haven't seen him since."
"Ah, well, thank you." She nodded to his retreating back and left, shutting the door behind her.
Fixing his tea, he carried the warm mug out into the living room, setting it down to open the envelope. It had something in it, something plastic and square, he assumed some sort of CD case maybe. Maybe a DVD from someone asking for him to work on a case.
Opening it, he peered inside and saw that it was a DVD, a small piece of paper tucked inside the clear plastic. Pulling it out, he opened the case and picked up the piece of paper. It had one line written in the same flowing style on the front of the envelope: I said I would burn your heart out. He stared at it for a second and then he crushed it, jumping up to get to the DVD player below the TV.
Impatiently, he shoved the disk into the device and pressed play, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm as he waited for it to start up. He ignored the opening credits, the quality of which was that of a movie. When it faded to black, he felt his heart stop, the sound coming from it growing in volume, the sound of someone breathing heavily through pain.
"Ah, Sherlock, so good to see you. It has been too long since we last spoke." Moriarty's image replaced the sound and the black screen. "I sent this knowing you couldn't resist watching."
His smile was cruel, full of mirth at his own brilliance. "You must already know what my little note means, my dear, so I won't make this long, though I so wish to. At the moment, I have something infinitely precious to you." He turned, looking off camera. "Say hello, John." A strangled yell followed his words, making Sherlock's hands clench into fists.
He gave a dramatic sigh. "I so wish you were here. It would make this all the sweeter. Of course, seeing as I don't like to get my hands dirty, I can't get the most pleasure from this, but watching seems to work just as well. You're little pet can make such a range of sounds."
There was a click and then the sound changed to the mingled yells of John screaming in pain, cursing, gasping, moaning, crying; they all assaulted his ears. "Music to my ears. But I know what you must be thinking. By the time you get this, he could be dead. Well, look at the bottom of the screen. The time will let you know that he is not dead." He looked and looked again. It was the same time as now.
"The DVD was just a program that allowed me to stream to your TV live, Sherlock. It's amazing what technology can do nowadays." He let out a giggle. "As an added bonus for you, I'll let you have a sneak peek of the show, a brief glimpse of the full thing." The camera shifted to the left, the image blurring at the movement before it settled on a single form.
His arms were above him, bound by thick white rope, probably some course stuff to do more damage as he struggled. There was blood on the ground in a small pool, more on his legs. He was pale in the harsh florescent light, nothing hiding the reddened skin where fists and other things had come in contact with flesh at fast velocities.
It moved back to Moriarty. "You know what I want. Leave a message when you wish to answer." The screen went blank and the DVD popped back out, it's purpose fulfilled.
It was hours later, the doctor had already been in three times, checking to make sure he was stable, that he wasn't about to flat line. The thought of John not waking up made his own heart want to flat line, but it wasn't the one the machine was monitoring.
Lestrade had gotten all he could from Sherlock and hadn't tried to force the man from leaving John's side. Even Donovan and Anderson hadn't had their usual snarky comments, their faces paling at the sight of John, taking in Sherlock's blank expression, his glassy eyes, dark circles underneath. He didn't know it, but he looked like he was about to break down.
Mycroft never came, but he did send one text message. 'I will collect eventually. MH' He didn't care. So long as John woke up.
The first thing he did was throw his tea against the wall, the unbearable anger and rage welling up inside him needing a vent before he could get to work. As porcelain smashed and tea ran down the wall in dark rivulets, he got to work.
Picking it up, he dialed a number he had memorized a long time ago, on the off chance it would be necessary to call it. It rang once and was picked up immediately. "Brother dear, what an unexpected surprise." Mycroft's soft oily voice said over the phone, preening no doubt that Sherlock had been forced to call him.
"Cut the crap, Mycroft. You know what's happened. I…"He swallowed heavily. "I need your help." He gritted out, the word burning on the way up.
His whole demeanor seemed to change, voice shifting into something else. "And why should help you little brother? What are you willing to pay for my skills?" He asked him.
"Mycroft…please." This was too important, John was too important to worry about pride.
There was silence for a few seconds and then he was speaking. "Met with him, someplace public and with cameras. Keep him busy long enough so my people can get in and out. I'll have snipers on his snipers, which should even this out for now…and brother?"
"What?"
"Expect to pay in full." The line went dead as Mycroft hung up. He didn't care though, mind already thinking, deciding on where to meet Moriarty.
Mycroft had done what he'd asked. As he talked with Moriarty, strung him along for the few necessary minutes Mycroft needed to get John out of there. Now he was here, in a hospital, hooked up to so many machines that at the moment, he looked less human.
He didn't care what Mycroft asked, even if it meant working for his brother. John was safe, for now and when he was able to survive without so many machines, he would get to work. Moriarty was right, it had burned, so much to see his heart like he was, but the fire that had burned him would now full him in his search to destroy the man.
Moriarty would not get away with this, would not live to see the new year. Already his mind was in overdrive, plans and plans forming as he readied for the hunt. They could wait though, first, he wanted to stay here until John finally opened his eyes. He'd have to ask Mycroft later about a protection detail set on John. He needed to protect his heart at all costs and that meant securing any ways of getting to his heart.
End.