His leg… Someone put the damn fire out in his leg… The aching pulsating pain that echoed up his entire leg, from the ankle to the thigh throbbed and burned, fragments of bone like glass to his flesh, told him his right leg had been shattered, broken, busted, tapped out, and in short destroyed. Burning pain, blinding pain, pain that wrenched his gut this way and that, threatening vomit, possibly blood, pain so bad even Sherlock Holmes was contemplating begging for mercy. God no make it stop god John fix it, please John just make it stop. Sherlock moaned, moaned in agony, agony beyond agony as his leg panged with sudden force, and Sherlock spewed vomit onto the cold concrete ground beneath him, its foul stuffy smell floating up his nostrils and reminding him of what he needed to know. He licked his lips, tasted the rusty tang of blood, and set to work.

Status: Alive, vitals functioning, heartbeat stable, oxygen purity normal. Right leg: Broken in multiple places, tibia, fibula, knee cap shattered, upper thigh cracked. Pull yourself together you foolish man and deal with it. Deal with it, pain is only a series of neurotransmitters sending the signal that something is wrong with the chemicals in the body, so ignore it and focus.

Location: Damp muddy smell on the air, stale, rain here three days ago then, so that rules out London. Think you idiot, ignore the pain, think, where has there been rain in the last three days… Cardiff… yes it had to be Cardiff, John was grumbling at the telly when it screamed that Cardiff would be raining… He had a medical conference there… Dark, lights must be out…what happened? Why am I here?

There was water dripping from a pipe somewhere, it's quiet plunking the only sound. The smell of dampness mingling with the smell of dirt, giving the air of being buried alive, though Sherlock knew he was above ground or the stink of mold would be apparent and intoxicating. He could hear a wind howling against whatever room he was in, so he assumed that this was a shed or garage of some kind, maybe a branching section of a complex.

Then he heard it, clicking footsteps of expensive shoes, the high and cold whistling of a man.

"Why hello my dear! What a surprise to see you! Well when I say surprise…"

Jim Moriarty. The footsteps came closer to Sherlock's head, and he heard the strain of fabric as Jim bent down, running an icy thumb down over one of his eyes. Lights flicked on and Sherlock realized he was facing the wall, which was made of concrete made to look like there were actual bricks there, approximately7 feet high, with a wooden ceiling… Not a cellar, but close to the ground, no windows one door, pipes trailing the walls.

Jim Moriarty was looking at him very intently.

"I thought you wouldn't wake up until I saw you spew chunks, what a lovely mess. Why did you throw up anyway? Oooooooh could it have been from this?" Jim straightened up.

Sherlock screamed as the psychopath kicked his bad leg, the toe of his shoe hitting it's mark around the shin area, near one of the fractures. Bloody churning fire began spreading up his leg, centralizing around the place of impact, and Sherlock screamed and screamed and screamed. And all the while he screamed, Jim sang.

"Regrets collect, like old friends…" Sherlock screamed louder as Jim rested his foot on top of the leg, simply let it rest upon his leg, enjoying watching Sherlock try to pull his hands out of the zip ties that were restraining him.

"Here to relive our darkest moments…" Oh god could the screams get any louder? They were hoarse and primal, loud and to Jim at least, strangely arousing. There was just something about screaming genius that just made him want to blow up a hospital or a safe house. To Sherlock however, they were the vocal embodiment of what he felt, the fire and its white hot flames. He wanted to vomit the pain was so bad, though he had already emptied the meager contents of his stomach, to simply get rid of everything useless so that it couldn't be hurt like his leg, god no anything but his leg, please god no…

Jim left the broken leg and sat cross legged right in front of Sherlock's face, near the pipe his hands were clipped to. He pulled out one of the silk handkerchiefs he had and wiped some sweat from Sherlock's brow looking at the detective sadly.

"Do you want me to stop that? Is that why you screamed so loud?" he waited for a reply. Sherlock sobbed dryly, and nodded slowly his clear grey eyes drooping. Jim grabbed a handful of the detective's curly hair and pulled his head up to face him, getting almost nose to nose with his captive.

"I DIDN'T GET AN ANSWER SHERLOCK." He whispered through gritted teeth and he smiled as the detective thrashed feebly, more like a dying fish then a rather tall and healthy man.

"Yes! Please don't do it again!" Sherlock was crying now, real tears falling down his face, wetting the sides of his nose.

"Oooooh Sherlock don't cry, I didn't mean to make it hurt that badly! Well no that's a lie, I did want it to hurt like that, give you a sense of mortality and pain beyond pain. Pain soooooo bad you would beg but you know, after I ran over your leg with a truck I didn't even think you would last that long." Sherlock looked up at him with vacant eyes, his lips parted to release the heavy sobs that became constant and ever present in the air.

"Your run on sentences are pointless, you would do much better just using simple sentence structure." Jim mocked a hurt look on his face, then snuck away back to Sherlock's leg, standing on it, full two feet on top of the tibia.

Sherlock rasped and yelled and shrieked, thrashing and wriggling under Jim's weight, his eyes closed tight as he strained to yell, and as the yell grew louder so did Jim's song.

"Every demon wants his pound of flesh…"

Jump. Jump. Jump. Jim was having fun with this now, knowing Sherlock meant that he found this even more fun than when a random client paid him to do this to their third cousin or old boss.

"But I like to keep something to myseeeeelf…"

Yell. Scream. Squeal. Sherlock was crying uncontrollably, screaming until his throat felt raw and dry, stinging as the mucus that lined it was slowly being stripped away and leaving only his windpipe.

"Why are y-you doing this?" he rasped as the consulting criminal stepped off his leg, and sat down away from Sherlock, as though to not tempt himself into hurting him anymore. Jim pulled out his phone and held the back up in front of Sherlock, who lay on his back as much as his position would allow, on the floor with his arms outstretched, as though he was flying through the air, his head lying on the cold floor.

Jim snapped a picture of Sherlock and sent it to the only person who would really appreciate the tear stains on his face and the mangled mess that was his leg: Mycroft Holmes.

"I want to see what breaks you Sherlock. I want to break you into thousands of little pieces, then send you back to that ponce of a brother as a quivering mess. I want to reduce the great Sherlock Holmes to nothing, I want to be occupied with your torture. I want to memorize your screams" Jim cooed, saying it in a merry singsong voice as if telling Sherlock about the new cat his mother had bought him, the lust in his voice chilling Sherlock, his mind doing that thing it always did, analyzing everything, trying to figure out what would happen next. But his next guess was almost a given, not really a guess at all but a statement. He was going to be put through painful ordeals, and his leg was just the half of it.

Oh his leg, Thought jim as stared at the text message he had just sent along with the photo:

To: The Iceman

2:43 pm

All the king's horses and all the king's men… Do you think his leg is broken? I couldn't quite concentrate with all that screaming. He damn near dented the truck that ran over it, his bones are extremely tough.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Jim typing away on his mobile, Sherlock deducing random things about his leg until something simple hit him full on in the face. He didn't have a clue how he got here.

"How did I get here?" He whimpered looking around frantically.

"Oh and now we come to that piece of information. You see, the thing about John Watson is he knows exactly when and where you are, why and how, and what you drink, making it veeery veeeeeeery eeeasy to slip just a little something into your tea, don't you remember?"

He did remember now, remembered the tea Mrs. Hudson had brought him, and she had tried to introduce him to her new friend Katrina? Katherine? Kathleen, or something, though he didn't much care, and he had made himself a cuppa and… Nothing. He groaned as his leg moved, more like a twitch than anything else, but nonetheless excruciatingly painful.

"John Watson was ever so helpful, even told us what case you had been on and everything."

"What? That's preposterous John has been home all week."

"Has he really Sherlock? When was the last time you saw him?" Jim was smiling at Sherlock deviously, his shock white teeth glowing under the florescent light bulb that lit the room, his dark suit crisp and silky, the devil truly, Satan at his finest.

"He was there on Thursday."

Jim got up and knelt down beside Sherlock, his phone held up so that Sherlock could see what picture lay on its florescent screen.

Fear griped Sherlock and he writhed like an adder, twisting and turning, bucking and trying to rear, pulling at the plastic around his wrists, roaring angry words and abuse as the picture from the phone burned ever brightly in his eyes, the ghost of its image and meaning refusing to fade.

He fought to stand, paining his leg a great deal until Jim had enough of hearing over and over again how 'I will kill you James Moriarty, kill you so well no one will ever find you' and injected the only consulting criminal in the world with a mild sedative, leaving Sherlock to wail and stew in his misery his final words that of a song: " I am done with my graceless heart…"

XxXxXxXxX

No no no no no no NO NO NO! Not him not him oh god not him anything but him anybody but him oh god my fault!

Sherlock felt the cool slice of a needle in his shoulder, its contents pooling into his bloodstream like fish following the current, staining the cells with their inky colors, mapping their way around like tourists looking for sights to spot, finding their way to his head and slowing his thoughts. Sherlock felt his leg pounding and aching from his unceasing struggle, and was almost relieved when he felt his eyelids sag, and his mind slowly falling into warm darkness, sinking him into a half conscious sleep, as though Jim had wanted him to be able to contemplate what he had just seen. The image itself was glowing white behind the lids of his eyes, like some kind of cruel light house.

Somewhere, Sherlock knew that John Watson was tied to a chair, with half his arm hanging off, the bone a mangled bloody mess, blackened as though burned away with flames.

The picture had no evidence of having been tampered with…

HI! It's me. The song that jim is singing is Shake It Out by Florence and the Machine, and I don't own it or anything in this entire story. Thanks for reading!