A/N:So here is chapter two, and yes it happened fast! It helps that the rp is already more than halfway done and that I had nothing better to do today than put it into story format. This chapter is one of the heavy one's so if you aren't interested in the gory details, just skim read. Also I would like to mention that in chapter one my wonderful girlfriend redroses100 played the parts of Moriarty and John, while I was Sherlock. I am still Sherlock here, and she's still John until we have Jim come in and she wrote for him while I became John. It was pretty fun swapping roles :3 and now, enjoy!

The Thinning Line

Chapter Two: Step right over the line

When John Watson finally returns to consciousness he finds that his eyes are hard to open, and the left eye feels almost fused shut by something thick and gooey. Slowly he becomes more aware of his surroundings, and fuzzy recollections return to him in frightening clarity. Sherlock's attack and the blood dripping down his own face before his flatmate drove John into unconsciousness. John groans, pain throbbing all through his head and wrists as well, when he tries to move them.

"I see you're finally awake." Sherlock Holmes drawls, almost as if this was just another normal day, where John has slept in, and the detective had to chastise his friend for keeping him waiting for something important.

John flinches, and looks blearily at his friend turned assailant. His eyesight is fuzzy, but John can tell that Sherlock is not wearing a shirt; because even with his throbbing head and unfocused gaze, it would be hard to miss all that pale flesh glimmering in the moonlight. Looking down at himself, the blond see's that he is wearing far less than that. John twists his hands again, glancing up and realizing that Sherlock handcuffed them to his headboard. "S-Sherlock what are you doing? What is this?"

A rather Cheshire like grin splits the detectives lips apart. The sight of John Watson sprawled out across his bed, pale skin looking far too angelic against the deep blue of the silk sheets. John's wrists are rubbed red, and the side of his face is caked in rusty hued blood. It all mixes together into a potent cocktail, that sends pleasure thrumming through every nerve in Sherlock's body. "Shh." He whispers, still eying his flatmate like a glass of water to a man dying of thirst. "Just be still John, don't waste what little energy you have left."

"S-Sherlock...I need to go to Hospital...I have...a– a concussion..." John babbles, voice soft and maybe tinged with a bit of fear.

The detective walks over to the side of the bed, and presses his slender fingers gingerly against John's temple. A few flakes of blood rub off, and onto Sherlock's digits and he brings them up to his face to study the red brown color against his pale skin. A look flashes through Sherlock's multi colored eyes, a brief glimpse into the overly curious man-child that he was. Then, his tongue flicks out, and Sherlock laps up the flakes of blood; a pleasured smile full of pure intoxication stretching over his lips.

John's stomach lurches at the sight, and he tugs at his raw wrists, hoping that maybe Sherlock didn't tighten the cuffs enough. But all he gets for his efforts, is more chafing on his wrists. "Sherlock, knock it off, this is going too far!"

Sherlock's gaze flicks over to his captive, and for a moment he looks surprised; as if the detective had forgotten John was there. A beatific smile graces his features as Sherlock stoops down and stares intently into John's blue-grey eyes. He see's John's pupils are dilated in fear, but there is no hazy quality to his flatmate's eyes. "Don't worry John." The detective speaks, his tone light and cajoling. "You do not have a concussion."

"And which of us is the doctor again?" John snarls, wanting so badly to punch the Consulting Detective in the face; maybe break one of his ridiculously high cheek bones... "Let me go now Sherlock and I won't call Lestrade for this."

Sherlock looks up coldly, growing rather tired of John's waspish behavior. "And how prey-tell are you going to manage calling Lestrade?" His fingers trail over the blond's cuffed wrists, and he watches with vague satisfaction as the salt from his fingertips stings the raw flesh, causing John to flinch.

John grits his teeth to keep from showing any weakness and glares at Sherlock. "You can't keep me like this forever. Mrs. Hudson will get suspicious, and Sarah too. And I highly doubt Mycroft will let you get away with this."

One of Sherlock's eyebrows raises slightly, and he gives John a patronizing look. "Do you not think I haven't thought of that yet? Honestly John, I thought you knew me better..."

"Sherlock enough! Stop this now!"

Sherlock huffs out a sigh full of lost patience, and irritation. Some thing dark, and menacing, fills his steely blue eyes. "If you do not stop your useless prattling, I have a rather lovely ball gag in my closet, that I can stuff between those pretty lips of yours. I would rather enjoy fucking that sinful mouth, but if I have to resort to such measures I will, though I will become sorely cross with you."

"Sherlock, have you lost your fucking mind?! This is all crazy!"

"Lost my mind?" The detective questions, voice low and steady despite everything. "No John, I am merely taking what I want. I have...denied myself such desires all my life, because I was told that with great power, comes great responsibility. I was not allowed to be curious of the darker things, for every one knew that with a mind like mine...anything could be possible. But, I have grown tired of playing the good guy John, it has led me no where! Hours of tedium, years of denying myself of the things I truly want..." Here he pauses to cup the blond's face, almost tenderly brushing his fingers against the wound by John's temple. "It's time that I give in, and enjoy all of life's possibilities."

John jerks his face out of Sherlock's hands, ignoring the pain that such a sharp movement brings. "Fucking hell Sherlock, you're talking like Moriarty! This is exactly what I was worried would happen!"

A scowl deepens the furrow of Sherlock's brow, when John jerks away. He stares into the blond's hate filled eyes for a moment before he shrugs. "Perhaps I will have to resort to the ball gag after all...you're beginning to annoy me, and I find that it is quite ruining the moment."

"Sherlock you have to stop this! This is wrong, on so many levels!" John's eyes widen slightly against their will, because this whole situation was out of hand.

"I will do what I want, and you will shut your prattling mouth before I sew it shut!" Sherlock practically screams, inches away from John's face and eyes blazing with cold fury.

"If you think I'll just sit quietly while you become the very thing you were fighting against, you are an idiot!" John shouts back, pulling at his wrists so hard that the headboard creaks with the strain and a dribble of blood runs down his arm.

Sherlock's eyes harden further, and they flick over to the line of crimson running down the pale expanse of the blond's fore arm. He leans over, and laps it up with one quick and decisive flick of his tongue, and pulls back. The detective's lips and teeth are now stained red, and he licks them absently as he stares down at John. "It's too late John, I have made up my mind. I have chosen a new path to tread, and I care not if you follow me willingly or not."

"You're fucking sick Sherlock!" John growls, and tries not to shudder from his flatmate's actions.

Rolling his eyes, patience finally snapping, Sherlock strikes John hard across the bloody scab along the side of his face. It cracks, and fresh blood begins to dribble forth, falling and staining the crisp white linen of Sherlock's pillow case. "Tsk tsk John, now you've caused me to make a mess..."

John takes a few breaths to steady himself, so he won't pass out or throw up from the pain, before turning cold eyes on his flatmate. "Fuck you."

Sherlock's hands smooth down, and over John's quivering chest; rubbing firm circles on his pale pink nipples. "John, if any one is to be doing any fucking, it will be me..." His tone is dark and heavy, full of promises of pleasure and pain.

The blond grits his teeth and waits for Sherlock to move a little lower, before raising his knee and slamming it into the detective's ribs.

Sherlock doubles over, a wheezing cough exploding forth. Clutching at his sore ribs, Sherlock turns the coldest and most deadly glare that he can muster, on John. "Perhaps I should have tied your legs down as well...or maybe, I should break them to teach you a lesson John? You know what they say, 'Pain is the only teacher we truly learn from' ".

"Sherlock I swear to any God there is that I will make you pay for this." John hisses out between his teeth.

"I highly doubt you're in any position to issue threats, John." Sherlock's voice is mocking, and cold. "Now, I am growing weary of this little cat and mouse game...so either you start to behave like good little pet- or, I will show you pain, the likes of which you have never known before."

"Fucking call me a pet again and I won't mind the broken legs, it'll be worth it."

Sighing heavily Sherlock shrugs, as if he has finally decided to do something he has no energy to really do, but will to do it any ways. "Well, since you insist on pain and humiliation, that is what you shall receive." He stands up fluidly, and walks over to his closet. After a few moments, Sherlock turns back to the blond on his bed, holding a ball gag and a lead pipe. "I suppose I can give you one last chance to behave like a good pet John... I am nothing if not fair."

John just glares, all the hate he is feeling pouring out through his blue eyes and his twisted sneer.

"Very well, have it your way John..." Sherlock sighs, resigning himself to what must be done. He walks over, and before John has the chance to even twitch a muscle, brings the lead pipe down and smashes it against one of the blond's knee caps. There is the spine chilling sound of splintering bone, before John's screams drown out the noise.

"Fuck!" The doctor tries to kick at Sherlock with his other leg, but every movement makes his now broken leg throb with unimaginable agony.

"Don't struggle John, you chose the hard way, now deal with the consequences like a man." Sherlock exclaims, and then proceeds to smash in John's other kneecap.

"You fucking psycho!" John shrieks, face red from pain, and tears welling up in his eyes.

Sherlock merely rolls his eyes, a long suffering sigh puffing passed his lips. "Yes yes, waste your energy on paltry insults..." He droll's lazily, indifferent to the off angle of the blond's legs, and the tears unwillingly streaming down his face.

"I'm going to fucking kill you!"

"John." The detective's tone is scolding, as if he was speaking to a dull witted child. "We both know you don't have it in you to kill me. We both know when the time comes, you'll try to save me- bring me back from the brink of despair, like the little hero you always love to be."

"Yeah? Well, I never thought you'd become a fucking Moriarty mini me either! I guess we're both surprising each other!"

"I am nothing like Moriarty!" Sherlock snaps, and moves forward to press his hand down onto one of John's shattered kneecaps, relishing in the blond's scream full of pure agony. "He is a dull, witless, idiot!"

"And just as fucking crazy as you!" John manages to yell between screams.

In one fluid motion, Sherlock straddles the blond's hips and looms over him. "I have grown tired of waiting John..." He almost pouts sullenly. "Your attitude has greatly dampened my mood. I will have what I want..." Sherlock presses himself closer to his captive, their shirtless chests melding together skin on skin as he rakes his nose up the column of John's neck, and inhales the scent of adrenaline and fear upon him.

"Get the fuck off of me!" John tries to knock the crazed detective off, but is in so much pain from nearly every part of his body, that he just struggles weakly.

Sherlock presses a harsh bite into the side of John's neck, sharp canines piercing the skin and drawing two beautiful dots of ruby red blood. He lets them trail down the blond's neck, and pool in the dip of his clavicle, before lapping them up. The detective groans in ecstasy, the metallic tang so sweet and bitter on his tongue.

"Sherlock how can you do this? I thought you were smart, rational. How do you rationalize this?"

The man in question looks up at John's pinched and pained expression, the thin and pale quality of his skin and the clammy sheen of sweat that covers it. Sherlock's bright blue eyes are dark, and pupils dilated from the pleasure being so close to his desires has brought him. "Because, I have desired you for far too long, and I am tired of chasing after things that stay just beyond my reach."

John's glare only gets darker. "Maybe you just should've asked for a lay. I probably would have been happy to fuck with you. But now...I will never stop hating you for this."

Sherlock's bright gaze grows thoughtful, and for a moment pure pity devours his blue eyes, but it is quickly banished as a weakness; a chink within his new and impenetrable armor. "Do not toy with me John...I know you only say this, to save your own skin. You have only ever cared about yourself, and your own pleasure- ignorant of my suffering!"

"Suffering?! The great Sherlock Holmes, married to his work and untouchable. How could I know that you wanted me? Not all of us are bloody crazy geniuses!"

"I want you to shut your mouth now John, and I will give you until the count of three to do so, before I shove this little toy between your lips and silence you myself!"

"How about you shove it up your ass with everything else you've been saying!"

"One." Sherlock barks out, and inches the ball gag closer to John's face.

"Are you going to fuck Moriarty too after this? I'm sure he'll love it!"

"Two." The detective growls warningly, his kneecap digging painfully into the blond's shattered one now.

"Fuck!" John screams, but doesn't back down now that he has the courage to antagonize his assailant. "You can kiss the darkest part of my lily white arse!"

"Three." Sherlock's voice is a gravelly, deep growl, full of feral wickedness. He moves the ball gag towards John's lips, but the blond merely clamps them shut tightly. The detective smirks, knowing that John would try some petty tactic like this... his hands move upwards until one is wrapped half way around the doctor's throat and the other is pinching his nose shut.

After almost a full minute, John begins to struggle weakly, his body involuntarily twitching and spasming as defense mechanisms war with his need to not give into his flatmate. A minute more, and the blond's pale skin is tingeing blue around the edges, and his wide eyes are starting to waver in and out of focus. And then, just as he is being pulled to the edge of oblivion, John Watson sucks in a shuddering breath, and Sherlock uses this opportunity to slip the plastic ball between his lips, and lifts his lolling head up so he can fasten the straps behind it.

John curses at the mad man, but because of the ball gag, it comes out as simply a string of mumbles. His head is spinning still because of the lack of oxygen and his possible concussion, as well as the immense pain John feels all over his body. He wonders briefly if he'll even remain conscious through this whole big shit storm.

"You look so complacent, and pretty like this John. Skin pale as snow, with ruby blood splashed against it and soft blue tingeing your flesh; like a little doll, delicate and demure." Sherlock trails his fingers lightly over the red, plastic ball stuffed between John's puffy lips, and smiles.

The ex-army doctor feels exhausted, but not enough to stop struggling. Though it is weak, just squirming really, the soldier in him will not let him stop.

Sherlock's hands softly caress all over John's exposed skin, reveling in the smooth and harsh plains of his body; the juxtaposition between delicate and strong that the blond has always possessed making him shiver with pleasure.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore Sherlock while at the same time trying to remain conscious. John doesn't want to stay awake, but as a doctor he knows that if he has a concussion, he shouldn't let himself fall unconscious yet.

Sherlock notices the way John's eyes begin to flutter, and so with an irritated sigh, he straightens and slaps him harshly on the other side of his face; so as not to injure the gash further. "Stay awake John, I would hate to have to fetch an adrenaline pen from the lab..."

The blond yelps in surprise when Sherlock slaps him and levels the man with a glare that's more wary than the others he's given. He is just... so tired.

"Oh John, your will full pride shall be your downfall..." Sherlock whispers, digging his fingers into the short blond strands of hair John possesses, and scrapes his fingernails a little roughly against his scalp.

In return, John snarls insults behind the gag, which the detective can't actually understand, but the intent is clear.

After a few more moments of leering over John, Sherlock burrows his nose into his soft hair and inhales the heady scent of fresh vanilla. "Oh..." He moans, his hips bucking against John out of reflex and the feeling causes him to fall forward limply, his face now nestled in the crook of the doctor's neck. The slow grind of his clothed cock against John's bare one causes the blond immense pain, because of his broken legs and he cries out beautifully around the gag in his mouth. "John..."

John tries to jerk and buck to deter the mad detective, but all it does is increase his pain. It causes his vision to white out for a moment, and when he comes back to himself, John can hear Sherlock talking.

"I can't hold back any longer, John. I do hope you can stay conscious for this, I want to look into your beautiful blue eyes when I cum deep inside your tight little ass." Sherlock sits up straight, smirking down at the blond while he unbuttons his trousers, and pulls out his long, stiff cock; the head red, and already weeping.

John's eyes widen subconsciously and he pulls at his wrists again, this time just trying to get away from Sherlock without the use of his legs.

The detective looks down at John, expression clearly showing that he is finding the doctor to grow increasingly more stupid by the moment. "Struggle all you want, it will do you no good." Sherlock murmurs, almost chuckling because of the rehashing this has turned into. He stares at John for a few moments more, and then he moves; grabbing hold of the blond's limp and useless legs and wrenching them apart, to reveal his puckered little hole.

John cries out in pain because of the jostling of his legs, and a scream of 'please' leaves his throat before his pride can snatch it back.

Sherlock can barely make out the muffled scream of 'Please!' from around the ball gag, but he does hear it and chooses to ignore John's pathetic plead. Instead, he grabs a hold of his aching need, and quickly pumps it a few times as he stares intently at the doctor's tear streaked face. Red lips, torn and puffy around the ball gag, blue eyes bright and swimming with fresh tears; it helps bring forth the image of something far more hot, and hard shoved between John's lips, causing him to look so wonderfully wrecked, and Sherlock groans heavily at the fantasy.

Sherlock's moan makes John's stomach twist in disgust and his moment of weakness passes, the most hateful glare returning to his face in its stead.

Without preamble, or even a warning of "This might hurt", Sherlock shoves his cock into John's ass. It only enters about halfway, before the tightness makes it impossible to thrust in further. He grabs the blond's hips in a bruising grip, and then snaps forward- feeling John's walls tear and hot blood coats his cock, making things nice and slippery. Sherlock does not give John a single moment to adjust, before he is fucking into him hard, and fast.

John tells himself that he won't scream, but with the first thrust he is, long and loud. White hot pain shoots up his spine and down his useless legs with every movement and it's just unbearable.

Sherlock's cheeks are painted in a wonderful flush, his lips red and falling open with wordless gasps, and breathy pants. There is the metallic smell of fresh blood, and sweat mixing together. Wet, squelching sounds fill the room as he continues to thrust madly into the blond's trembling and broken body. "Oh...fuck John, you feel so wonderful around me." Sherlock groans, and quickens his pace. Moments later, his breath hitches, and he stills- his hips pressed firmly into John's as he spills his thick, hot seed deep inside John's bloodied and torn hole.

John's eyes roll up into his skull as the added sting of semen in torn flesh tips him over into unconsciousness, everything finally becoming too much.

The Consulting Detective sighs, as he stares down at John's bloody, broken body laying across his sheets. The wound by his temple has scabbed over once more, as well as the torn flesh of his lips. There is a bruise blossoming across the blond's other cheek, and finger shaped bruises litter his neck and hips. Sherlock pulls out, and wipes the blood coating his softening cock upon John's pale thighs, leaving a wet slippery mess all over his lower half. Then, he stands and without looking behind him Sherlock dresses, and leaves the room. He heads downstairs and to the door, shucking on his coat, before wrenching the door open. There are things the detective must prepare, if he is to keep his little toy away from prying eyes...

Well. That was quite the show. Honestly, Jim didn't expect it to work so quickly, or so completely. Sherlock really was a sick fuck when he let go, Moriarty gleefully smiles. He slips into 221b, making his way up the stairs, and over to John's body, so abused it's almost sick even to him. The strangest feeling of pity stirs inside the Consulting Criminal as he looks the blond over and makes the decision to torture Sherlock some other way than killing the good doctor, as he was intending to do. Instead, he wanders to the kitchen, fills a cup with water, and returns. Jim unbuckles the ball gag in John's mouth before dipping his fingers in the cup and flicking water droplets on his face to wake him up.

There was such a wonderful, blissful darkness that had enveloped him, before something wet and cold was dripping down onto John's face. With a jolt, though for a moment he could not recall why he should be afraid, John Watson wakes up. Panic squeezes his lungs shut and he gasps for air, expecting the difficult struggle of having to breath around a stiff, plastic sex toy shoved painfully in between his aching teeth. John is confused, and disoriented as he wakes- wondering why Sherlock is still not brutally inside him, and fucking his limp body for all it was worth.

"Easy John, easy. You'll only hurt yourself more by struggling." Moriarty puts his hand beneath the blond's head and lifts it so he can swallow some water.

John doesn't really understand what's going on- if the man before him is really Moriarty, or not. Maybe it was Sherlock, and he was hallucinating...because really, there was no difference between the two now. And then that thought buzzed his senses into alertness, and if this was Sherlock or even Moriarty- he should not ingest whatever liquid they were force feeding him; like an invalid. John takes a quick mouthful because the cup is being tilted so insistently against his lips, before he spits it out venomously at whoever this phantom man was.

Jim scoffs and steps aside as the water is spit at him, rolling his eyes for good measure. "Didn't your mother ever teach you manners? Or rather, knowing her history, how to drink at least?"

The blond begins to struggle weakly, and realizes belatedly that even though the phantom man had removed the ball gaga, he did not however remove his wrists from their iron prison, strapped to Sherlock's head board. His wrists, which had scabbed over while John was unconscious, creaked and cracked- and the scabs split, as fresh blood poured down his chaffed wrists and along his bare arms. "Who..." John's voice is weak, and cracks so easily it was pathetic to hear even in his own ears. "Who are you...? Sherlock...please, let me go- if it's you..."

The feeling called pity tugs harshly at Jim's insides and he sighs, glancing at the hand cuffs. With a shrug, because it's not really like John can go anywhere if he does free his arms, Moriarty pulls a skeleton key out of his pocket. "I'm not Sherlock, John, but I am going to free your hands now. You're in a bad state so I need you not to panic or try to fight me, do you understand? You could seriously injure yourself if you do."

There is something calm and rational in the not Sherlock man's tone (for John still refused to fully believe that the man before him was Moriarty and that he was not still so delirious from the concussion and from the pain in his legs). It spoke to the rational, doctor inside of John and he knew the man was right. As his wrists are freed, they fall limply at the blond's sides, and the harsh prickling pain of blood being able to flow properly into his extremities, has John sucking in a harsh breath as he tries not to cry out.

"Shh...you're okay...well, not okay, but you're safe. For now." Jim pulls out his cell phone and calls Moran for a lift, all the while keeping a sharp eye on John to make sure he won't do something stupid. "And message my on-call doctor that he's needed immediately at my hospital." He adds to Moran before hanging up and trying to get the doctor to drink again.

John just looks straight ahead, gaze unfocused and glassy while he tries vaguely to pay attention to what the man (whoever he is) is saying. He only opens his mouth and takes whatever the man has to offer him, because there really is no point in fighting it...if it's a drug, then the blissful oblivion it will bring is welcomed in the face of all the pain that stabs into him. John's wrists sting. His head throbs...and his lower half aches.

A flash of worry crosses Jim's face before he frowns. He did not think Sherlock would go so far as this! This...seeing John Watson, soldier and an actually rather brilliant being, so broken...it disgusts him for some reason that he cannot fathom. "John, can you hear me?"Moriarty keeps his voice level, devoid of the concern he was feeling. Silently he hopes that John's head injury isn't as bad as it seems.

It takes a few moments for John to recognize that his name is being called, because now he is drawing in on himself to help numb the pain in his body...and in his heart. He turns, blinking rapidly before replying. "Yes...I can hear you- who ever you are..."

That causes Jim to worry even more and he gently lays his hand on John's forehead to check his temperature. John is starting to burn up already, which is extremely concerning and not good news at all. "John you need to stay awake. You're a doctor, you know what head injuries do to people. And you're most likely in shock as well. Tell me where you are. Or the day. Just keep talking."

The blond tries to flinch away from the cool hand being placed against his forehead, because the long, pale fingers remind him too much of Sherlock's. It was...baffling to hear concern in what must be Moriarty's voice, for the man had not said otherwise that he was indeed not Moriarty. "I am...John Watson..." He croaks out, a small furrow creasing his brow. "Today is...December 3rd. I am in Sherlock's bedroom, 221b Baker street."

Jim sighs, but his worries are not completely assuaged. "List the names of your friends. Keep talking, keep yourself awake. My men will be here soon, but you need to stay conscious until then."

John winces, because really it hurts his head, his aching jaw, and his ruined throat to talk...but, he knows Moriarty is doing everything he can, so the doctor does not fall back into unconsciousness. "Mrs. Hudson." John begins slowly. "Molly...Lestrade." He lists off all the people he knows, but never once utters Sherlock's name.

"Drink some more water. Can you sit up?"

Watson shakes his head, and gasps because that was the wrong thing to do. Now his head is swimming and he is seeing bright white dots floating through his vision.

The Consulting Criminal starts to worry, but the door opens behind him and Moran walks in with one of Moriarty's beefier security men. "Be careful with him. Or I'll have you eviscerated."

John wants to protest when a pair of overly muscled arms lift him up gingerly from Sherlock's bed and hold him bridal style against the man's broad chest. But the pain in his head is still making the room spin, and now he feels like he could vomit... so John clamps his mouth shut against the rush of saliva that preludes the emptying of his stomach's contents.

Jim grabs one of the sheets from the bed and drapes it over the blond and Muscles' arms before letting him walk first towards the stairs. On the way down Moriarty hears a gasp and he turns to see Sherlock's old lady housekeeper. "Tell Sherlock that if he can't play nicely with his toys, I have to take them away." With that he leaves the flat, not looking back as he climbs gracefully into back of the nice black car waiting on the curb.

It's a struggle for John to stay conscious. But, the feeling of cool silk against his skin, even though it makes something sick twist in his gut, grounds him enough to keep him anchored in reality. "W-Where...where are we going?" John whispers and winces because even that hurts his throbbing and bloated feeling head.

"We're going to Hospital John." Moriarty replies, without looking over his shoulder.

John hums in reply at that. He feels warm, his body beginning to feel unnaturally heavy... it's becoming very difficult for him to keep his eyes open, or even connect cohesive thoughts. Watson's eye lids begin to droop as he murmurs. "So...sleepy."

Jim glances around for something to use to keep the doctor awake, his eyes falling on a bottle of water. He quickly twists off the cap and hands the bottle to Muscles. "Keep. Him. Awake."

The blond's eyes close only briefly, a welcome darkness encroaching him, when something cool and firm and plastic is pressed to his lips. He jolts awake at that, memories of fingers closing off his air, and stuffing a ball gag between his lips all too fresh and John cries out."NO!" He looks around wildly before he realizes that even though his naked body is still twisted up in one of Sherlock's silk sheets, he is no longer held captive in 221 Baker Street.

"John, it's okay, you're safe." Jim murmurs, reaching back to direct the doctor's face towards his own. "Sherlock won't touch you again."

John flinches, just the sound of Sherlock's name wrenching something deep, and painful in his chest. He doesn't understand why Moriarty is acting so protective and concerned, and wants nothing more than to ask him, but the car has suddenly stopped and now John is being jostled out of it. The bright sunlight pricking into his eyes, of a pearly dawn makes the doctor's head throb so terribly, that this is what undoes his resolve not to puke. He leans over the man, and with a violent shudder, spews forth what little contents his stomach has left to offer.

"Hurry, let's get inside. Moran get the doctor."

Everything moves by in a blur of noise and activity, and vaguely John is aware of being pressed into a firm white mattress upon a gurney. He is finding it increasingly difficult to understand the questions being hurled at Moriarty and himself, as he is swept off in a tide of confusion and fear.

"Broken legs, head injury, wrist contusions, and raped." Jim lists off to the doctor as they walk. He nods dutifully before giving orders to his underlings. He points Moriarty, Moran, and Muscles to a waiting room before disappearing with John into a surgery room.

There is so much noise, and light. John scrunches his eyes shut, and tries to will away the dull throbbing ache of his head, and now painfully empty stomach. Orders are barked around, but he cannot focus on the words. A mask is slipped over the doctor's face, and before he can protest- darkness drags John Watson into its sweet embrace once more.

E/N: Chapter three will be worked on as soon as possible. It probably won't come out as fast as this one, but we will endeveaor to post at least once a week. Until then, have a wonderful day!

Love, redulia100