Sherlock worked his way into Moriarty's web as gingerly as he could, aiming to make his way to the core and shut them down from the base. It sounded simple, but there was bumps in the road and Moriarty wasn't a fool. He knew Sherlock. He knew how the detective worked and what made him tick, and he knew how to push just the right buttons for Sherlock to do exactly what he wanted. And if the detective didn't follow along, he went to- he wouldn't say desperate measures. As Jim would say," You have the easy way or the hard way. Your choice."
And the hard way ended up being bound and practically beaten until Sherlock spilled what they wanted to know.
Sometimes Jim's lackeys would beat the man simply for fun, though the man would lash back with his detailed deductions on their private lives, making them either increasingly furious and violent or they would simply storm out of the room. Either way, Sherlock lived through it, though there were times where he was beaten to an inch of his life. Left bound, bruised and bleeding. No medical care, no careful touches or treatment. He was simply abandoned on the cold (what looked like a warehouse) floor; scantily clad and a gruesome mess. It wasn't a surprise of the wounds were infected, but there was nothing that Sherlock could do about it. So he did his best to deal with the searing pain; the burns, gashes, and bruises- anything that was thrown at him. Not to mention that he was given little to no recovery time before he was beaten and used like a ragdoll once more by one of Jim's men.
And yes, he has tried to escape before. But it wasn't long until Moriarty's men surrounded and cornered him with loaded guns pointed at the detective's vulnerable, unprotected flesh threatening to pull the trigger if he didn't obey their commands. In the end, he was blindfolded and bound to be brought back to that warehouse-like building void of any windows (the only light provided by worn, flickering fluorescent bulbs hooked to the ceiling).
This was third attempt at escape in the last year and a half. And Jim, to say the least, wasn't very happy with Sherlock's repeated behavior. And this is when he stepped in himself to administer the punishment, wanting to speak to the man face to face.
He had given his underlings the order to drag Sherlock into this certain small room that wasn't alien to the intelligent man and strap him to the shackles tethered to the wall there. He was to have nowhere to sit or rest, the only chair in the room being on the other side near the door only to sit and watch the prisoner be bound and beaten; barely within Sherlock's reach even if he kicked and thrashed. For the room was scarcely lit, the only source of light to see around the confined area was a mere dim bulb tethered to the wall behind prisoner; blinking randomly as it drained its energy. Otherwise, the walls and floor was solid, scratchy concrete. Dried, old blood spatters decorated splotches on the wall, serving as a grotesque modern painting. Most of this blood was Sherlock's.
With the man's wrists in shackles and rendered helpless, this was Jim Moriarty's signal to enter.
He had strut in with his head high, his hair slicked back and dressed elegantly in his usual westwood suit. His expensive, shining dress shoes caused a dull click to resonate off the tightly packed walls. Hands resting in his pockets fiddling with what seemed to be a cell phone.
Two of his men stood near the open door, pistols held firmly in their belts and the most prominent object on their body. Sherlock felt no threat at the moment because of them, since the devil himself was waltzing in and scowling right in the detective's direction.
"You two, leave. I wish to be alone with Sherly for a bit." He pulled one hand out of his pocket only to make a 'shoo' motion, glancing over and watching as the two men nodded silently and turned on their heel, shutting the door behind them and leaving the consulting criminal along with the consulting detective.
"Now, I heard that you tried to run away again. Is that true?" Jim took a few steps so he was standing right in front of Sherlock, narrowing his eyes as he practically burned a hole on the top of the man's head from staring at him so intently.
No answer from Sherlock.
"Aw, no need to be silent. You can speak up." He spoke as if he was trying to communicate with a mere child. A foolish, dumb child.
There was a quiet, barely audible huff from Sherlock; refusing to look up at the well-dressed criminal and staring down at the sullied, disgusting floor. His grown out brunette curls hung over his face, hiding his expression, his emotions.
"You're awfully quiet today." Jim fake pouted, feigning a look of pity. "Usually you never stop talking, just like that busy mind of yours." He tilted his head to the side slightly, his eyebrows furrowing together slightly and showing his disapproval.
"I usually hate to get my hands dirty, but sometimes I have to take the risk." Jim tsked, clicking his tongue as he pulled off his suit jacket, folding it before he placed it in the corner of the room near the door. With that, he proceeded to unbutton the cuffs of his sleeves to roll them up past his elbows, out of the way of any dirt or grime that would come into contact with his hands. "There we go, much better." He hummed, feeling more comfortable in this state of dress for what he was about to do.
He reached out, and Sherlock tensed up, expecting to get hit until he felt a soft caress on the skin of his cheek, pushing a few locks of long, curly hair behind his ear to reveal a part of his face. He still didn't raise his eyes to look at the madman.
"Now, Sherly." He practically purred, though there was poison in his words. "If I'm correct, this is the third time that you tried to get away from me. Is that true?"
His words were met with silence and the slight rattling of chains as Sherlock barely shifted.
Jim's gentle caress turned into a hard slap across the cheek, and before Sherlock was given any time to recover, his hair was pulled back only to bare his throat.
Jim chuckled.
"I said; is that true?" He repeated himself, that sickly sweet, threatening tone echoing off the walls and back to both of the men's ears.
"Yes." Came Sherlock's even, loud-enough reply, trying his best to hide the pain of the other pulling at his hair.
"I thought you would have learned the first two times that you tried to pull this little stunt, honey. Remember the other times?" His voice dropped to a hiss, locking his blue-grey eyes with the detective's cerulean green ones.
Sherlock didn't want to remember.
The first time that he had attempted to escape, he was taken back to the compound struggling and whimpering only to be latched into these exact chains in this exact spot where he was beaten into an inch of his life and thrown around like a rag doll until he begged forgiveness, covered in blood and swollen eyes welling up with tears. It wasn't until he was pale and unable to form sentences that Jim called them off and left Sherlock bleeding, broken, and freezing on the harsh floor.
The second time was much like the first, but more brutal. Moriarty's men shackled him, cut his flesh slice by slice until blood ran down his arms and back. They pulled at his hair and even broke one of his fingers, dislocating many others. Pulled, hit, torn, and groped until Sherlock was whimpering, tears streaming down his cheeks as he struggled to even form words; his overgrown nails digging into his sensitive palms. Same as the first, they left him there on the floor, both shackles still tethered to the wall and cuffs secure around his bony wrists, forcing the weak man to stand until someone else came in to free him from his bonds.
The memories flashed through his mind, and he couldn't help but gasp and try to pull away from Jim's grip as he wondered what was to be done to him this time around. He was fearful, and the emotion seemed to consume him and settle across his skin, making him tremble and curl into himself as much as the chains allowed him to. Jim would have none of this nonsense, one hand continuing to pull at Sherlock's hair and another coming up to slap him hard across the opposite cheek, a quiet hiss escaping his lips at the feeling of the other's sharp cheekbone against his hand.
"No no no, there will be none of that. Absolutely none." A dark chuckle bubbled up from Jim's throat as he said this, that sick smirk plastered on his features. "Those last two times I didn't get to have any fun. Now I have you alllll to myself." Another chuckle, and there was a murderous glint in the criminal's eyes. Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line, trying his best to keep up his cold stare, but failing. His true emotions were given away by the way his eyes glistened, threatening to spill tears and his whole body trembling just enough for Jim to notice.