Introduction
In which Sherlock walks into Moriarty's web, knowing full well what he's doing. Doesn't mean he has to like it.
"One demerit," a voice coos, somehow managing to sound as if it's just above his head, though he knows he's alone. He drops the tiny shard of plastic in his right hand – bounces twice, coming to rest exactly 3.5 inches directly in front of his right knee - sighs loudly, and sits back on his haunches in the darkened room.
Sherlock knew he'd be caught. Didn't actually expect any other outcome, but he'd been so dreadfully bored. Bored beyond reason, quite literally this time.
They'd taken his dirty red hoodie, shoes, and belt, but left him with the rest. His shirt had buttons – buttons that could be bitten in half, eventually - and used to pick the lock of the room where he was being held.
"You didn't say I couldn't try to get out of this room, Moriarty." Sherlock grinds the words out between clenched teeth. "You only said I wasn't to leave this house."
"Ah, you clever hair-splitter, you," Moriarty replies warmly, almost affectionate. "Let me make this very simple. You stay where I put you; you do what I tell you. Now, as for your demerit … yes. I know exactly. Let the punishment suit the crime. Sherlock, take off your clothes."
"What?!" Sherlock, sounding both surprised and not a little indignant, huffed out the word.
Moriarty sighed patiently. "Sherlock, I know you've been through quite a scare, what with being dead and all. Or playing dead, anyway. But we have a very simple contract to which you agreed without hesitation. I expect you to honor it. So, my dear Holmes, remove your clothes RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"
Moriarty's voice boomed around the small room - three meters square three-and-a-half high - as Sherlock stood slowly in the darkness. - I did not agree to your contract without hesitation, you dark fuck. But I did agree to it, didn't I?
His hands pulled at the buttons of his shirt – organic silk dark purple verging on burgundy – and he slipped it off his shoulders and dropped it to the floor. The room – no windows one door no unusual features probably a closet at one time - was cold, but not excessively so. He unbuttoned, and then unzipped his faded jeans before stepping out of them. Almost as an afterthought, he took off his socks. He paused.
"And the pants," Moriarty's voice, bored.
Sherlock obliged, toeing them into the pile with his shirt and jeans. Looking every inch as disinterested as he felt with this latest game, he stared up at the ceiling where he imagined there must be an infrared camera – sound likely coming from two speakers if so two corners for speakers two for cameras one standard one infrared makes the most sense – and shrugged. "Well?"
"Well what?" Moriarty was beginning to sound distracted. "Oh. Sit facing the wall opposite the door. Someone will come round to fetch your clothes."
Sherlock did as he was instructed. Crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees, he steepled his fingers under his chin, and waited.
Bored.
.
.
.
.
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NEW AN (November 16, 2012): I changed the chapter titles because this one is so short, and it serves more as an introduction than a full chapter. No other changes except for moving the notes to the bottom of each chapter.
DFTBA