I pry my eyes open to complete darkness, and I am seemingly alone, expect for the sharp, deafening voices that withhold an undecipherable conversation—their voices are only noises, sounds, and not words that I recognize.
Slight movements enable me to discover about the place I am captured. A flick of the wrist—I feel a rough piece of rope scratching my skin and causing a rash to form on my flesh. A tug of the legs—I am restrained to a chair, rope holding me down, and with an attempt to shriek, I discover my mouth is covered with duct tape.
Fantastic.
The voices lessen until there is nothing but insane silence surrounding me. Booms of footsteps occur, becoming louder and louder as they progress. My chin lowers, nearly touching my chest, and lights flip on, blinding me temporarily. I blink, and black dots stain my vision for a few moments until they clear, and I glance up to see a woman—not only a woman, but a naked one at that! Beside her stands a giant man in a suit and tie, his arms crossed and his lips unnaturally large for his thin face. I look up to see a light fixture swaying above me, and I stare back at the woman. The corners are shadowy and dim with what I assume are monsters lurking about, for scratching and dripping noises arise from the darkness.
"Hello," she purrs, her voice velvety and seductive, leaning forward so that her breasts perk out. I accidently examine her body, every crevice and every inch of her body, and I hope she doesn't notice. Her hair is crimped with a gorgeous shine to her brown hair. The blueness of her eyes is surreal and enchanting; I seem to get lost in them easily, as if they were a new world entirely on their own. She wears only black high heels and a diamond pinched into her belly button. Clenched in her hand is a whip that I hope she doesn't plan on using on me.
My Adam's apple bobs up and down, and she chuckles, shifting her weight from one hip to the other, her butt plump and her body slender.
"Do you know what I want from you?" she hums, her lips wet and pink, her tongue sliding over her front teeth. She approaches me with tenacity, and my heartbeats quickens. She smirks as if she knows it. She places the whip beside my chair and sits on my lap with her wandering hands stroking my neck and chest fondly, poking her chest out and sliding her body against mine. Her eyes gaze deep into mine.
"Do you?" she whispers. Fingertips climb up my neck to my chin and the side of my mouth, and they tickle the duct tape before grasping it and ripping it mercilessly off my face.
I groan, and my breath sputters.
Her nose scrunches up, and she grips the collar of my shirt tightly. "Do you?" she growls.
"No," I answer hesitantly. I sound weak, and a smile flickers on her lips. I force strength into my words, but the fear in my eyes is still apparent. "No, I don't."
Her body transfers heat to mine, but I still manage to shiver.
She giggles and reaches over for the whip. Staring at me, biting her lower lip, she snaps it behind me, the whip cracking thunderously. My chest clenches, and my breath quivers, which sparks a wide grin on her face.
"I won't hurt you if you give me what I want, John." Her voice is innocent like a child's, but her eyes spell out the word "devil".
"Yes, yes, take whatever you want, I don't care," I say, panicked. "Just—what do you want? Tell me."
Her head cocks to the side, and her eyebrows tug upwards as if she pities me. Her mouth parts, and she leans in close to me, her lips touching my ear. Her breath is warm and unpleasant, and I wish to push her away. She hovers above me for a few seconds before finally answering: "Him."
"What? I don't understand—" And suddenly, it clicks. What she wants, what she demands me to give her is the only thing in the world I really care about. The only thing I love.
Sherlock.
"But—I can't just…." My voice trails off, and she lifts herself from me. I cock my head to the side and watch her hair bounce as she skips in the lit parts of the room, her hands behind her back, her posture careless yet respectable. "Why did you capture me?"
"You are competition," she sighs. "I want him for myself."
"Why would you want Sherlock?"
She shrugs and ventures toward the darker parts of the room, wiggling her fingers above some sort of table. "Oh, I don't know," she moans. Her fingers clasp onto an object that I can't see. "Probably the same reason you do." Her hips pivot towards me, her arms extended, her fingers clenched around the object—a gun.
My heart leaps out of my chest as if it's attempting to run away.
She narrows her eyes at me and spits, "He's mine."
As her finger latches on to the trigger, I close my eyes and begin to count, because what else am I supposed to do? I can't tell Sherlock all that I've ever felt for him, I can't tell my mother I love her, I can't do anything. All I can do is count to five and prepare to die.
One.
I think of his lips speaking at a rapid pace, spewing out intellectual comments and utilitarian deductions and often spiteful or condescending remarks.
Two.
I think of his cunning gestures and his confident movements. Both his regular habits—such as the way his tucks in his scarf or makes his tea—and his unpredictable notions—like hiding frozen eyeballs from me in the freezer or attempting to keep a small fetus that has developed two heads.
Three.
All the realistic, unchangeable things about him: his deep voice, his pale muscles, his intelligent discourse, the incredible ideas he produces when his brain isn't properly stimulated, how he can go days without speaking to a soul, how he claims to be the most superior, godly human being but refuses to go out to the store and purchase a carton of milk.
Four.
My mind wanders into my fantasies: the way his soft skin grinds against mine as we lay in bed together, the way he kisses me (timidly at first and then with an aggressive passion), the way I run my fingers through his hair when he places his head on my lap, the way he smiles coyly at the sight of me in the morning, the way he says I love—
Five.