Where am I? Watson woke to the feeling of cold cement beneath him and a dripping on his forehead. His hand was snapped back to the ground quickly as he reached upwards to wipe the water from his face. What? Watson turned his head, scratching himself on the rough cement, and found his hands and legs strapped to poles in the ground. He tested the weight of the chains as the previous night's memories washed over him.
"Where is he?" Watson tried to scream; his voice was muffled by a gag in his mouth. John Watson, ever the soldier mentality, tried to sit up and pull the old rag away from his mouth, but both these actions were to no avail. His body rose about an inch from the ground before he was slammed back down into the hard floor. Watson knew he had to warn Sherlock, but how?
"Not feeling so well now are we, Doctor?" Watson looked up. He knew that voice; it was high pitched and maniacal and sent chills down his spine. But that's impossible! Surely it can't be-
"Have you caught on yet?" Said the voice, as John Watson's eyes searched hungrily across the room, trying to find the source. Suddenly, a wall that was solid a minute ago flipped backward, sending up little puffs of dust and sending out a short man."It's simple really, but I won't explain until we are joined by our friend, Sherlock." Moriarty, for that is who he was, smiled smugly and walked closer to Watson. "Do you recognize me then?" Watson was unsure how much he should let on. If he nodded yes it would surely speed his death closer. If he shook his head no, he might anger his captor. He comprised with a noncommittal shrug- as best he could from lying down- and waited for response. This was clearly not the answer Moriarty had hoped for.
"You really don't see it?" He asked, almost whining. "Oh come on! Well I'll leave it as a surprise until little Sherly comes along then shall we?" Moriarty smiled then at the disgusted face Watson made. "What, you don't like me to call him Sherly? Don't you know that's what his true friends call him?" Moriarty's smile broadened at his own words. "Friends did I say? I meant his family. And by that I mean dear, little Mycroft."
He knows too much. Watson struggled to keep a blank face as the man took another step closer. How does he know all this? Who told him? Watson couldn't begin to think who. Surely only Mycroft would know of Sherlock's nickname. Watson himself had never called him anything besides Sherlock or Holmes, so it was not from he the maniac had acquired the information. Watson tasted something funny in his mouth and looked up. The steady dripping on his forehead had moved down to the rag. He soon found it was not water at all.
Moriarty smiled. "Ah, there we are. It seems someone placed the drip too high. Well, one can't always trust the help." The accompanying chuckle raised goosebumps all over his skin. Moriarty was feet from him now, and reaching with his foot to touch Watson's side. As the fine Italian leather shoe hit his ribs, Watson's brain exploded in pain. A bruise! Watson screamed inside his head, all the while maintaining a poker face. Moriarty smiled again and brought his foot back for an even harder kick. Watson tried to pull away, but his chains were strong and he could not escape the hurt. As he vomited from the pain, he tried to aim for Moriarty and his pants.
"Now really. Now I have to change, all because you can't handle pain. Poor little baby Johnny." Moriarty said, a mockingly baby voice as he started walking back to the wall opening. "I'll be back soon and then we can go meet the great Sherlock Holmes. I'm a big fan you know," Moriarty sneered, coupling his frown with a wink.
I need to get out. I need to warn Sherlock! How am I going to do it? If I was Sherlock, how would I- Watson's head slumped back down and hit the ground hard. Although his head was bruised, he didn't wake up. The chloroform from the drip was finally taking effect.
