Human Error
A/N: Unedited, forgive typos. I'm hoping that my writing rate improves once I get my new glasses and take care of the astigmatism. Sucks to try and type when every few minutes the screen blurs on me and I get headaches... so I'm totally blaming that for my lack of updates.
Chapter Three
The Awakening
It didn't take long for John and Mary to show up at the hospital with Lestrade. When they walked in, the exhausted detective was asleep in the chair that he'd been sitting in most the day. John exchanged a glance with his wife. It was just after five in the evening. John moved and shook Lestrade's shoulder gently. He woke with a start.
"Oh, John, Mary, hi," he said with a weary blink. "What time is it?"
"Little after five, have you been here all day?" Mary asked, sitting in the seat next to him and looking on him with concern.
"Um, yeah. Just…was hoping he'd wake up. Took him off dialysis earlier, though, his kidneys seem to be functioning again, so that's good news," he said standing slowly and stretching with a yawn.
"I just can't get my head around this…Sherlock's never been interested in anyone, so how did this bloke end up moving in like this?" John asked, brown furrowing.
Lestrade shook his head. "I don't know, to be honest. By the time I was over there, it was already a week gone, and I wasn't sure exactly how to react. Will he be back to normal now that he's off that drug cocktail? Do you think it caused any permanent damage?"
John shook his head. "I don't think so but…I've never seen someone given that combination of things."
"Well, it figures, for someone to finally control Sherlock bloody Holmes, it took heavy doses of mind altering drugs, and not the fun kind he used to dabble in," Lestrade said, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I guess I'm still confused as to what happened. The man is a serial killer?" John said, dropping to sit down beside him.
Lestrade shook his head. "I don't quite get what exactly happened. The guy used to be a CIA agent, but he snapped or something when he found his current partner with his brother in their bed. He took off, disappearing off grid in America, and his brother, who was also a CIA agent, accepted the task to find him. Then they started turning up a few curious deaths, overdosed on phenobarbital, and obvious victims of abuse of some sort. Family and friends came told everything they'd been happy, in a new relationship the last week, and then everything went to hell. Some got frantic phone calls about being drugged, others about being hurt by this new partner. By the time they were investigated, it was too late. All were Caucasian males with dark hair, of various heights, but always on the thinnish side. A month ago, the trail went cold in America and CIA got a call from some international agency about a similar death in Wales. Charles Verdal was sent over immediately, and had just hit London when he was found dead."
"So the victims looked like this guy's ex?" Mary asked.
"No, they looked like Charles, his twin brother, thin and dark haired. It seemed that was enough of a resemblance for him," Lestrade said with a sigh.
John stood and started pacing. "But he was on the crime scene. That's where Sherlock met him. How the hell did he get in and out of the crime scene? And run all over London?"
"Apparently, 'need to know' didn't include the Met. We weren't told anything, and he waltzed onto the scene flashing his badge and credentials, and no one asked any questions. Why would we? We'd already been told that we were going to be meeting up with a CIA agent named Verdal. And he was damn convincing, even Sherlock didn't pick up on his falsehoods," Lestrade said with a sigh.
There was a long quiet moment until the door opened and Mycroft came in, his fist wrapped so tightly around the handle of his ever-present umbrella his knuckles were white. His jaw was set in a tight line.
"What is it?" John said, standing.
"He's escaped us, during the transfer to the Americans. He had help," Mycroft said and no one felt the ability to breathe for a long moment.
Lestrade, who had stood when Mycroft entered, flopped back down into the couch. "He has to have someone on him 24/7. This guy is going to want to finish what he started. They don't leave them alive."
John had Mary's hand in a tight hold and his body practically vibrated with the tension. "He can't go back to Baker street after he gets out," Lestrade pointed out. "I know your flat doesn't have an extra room, but I've got a spare for when my kid comes to visit. Not that it ever gets used anymore. I'd send him with Mycroft, but we all know his answer to that one," Lestrade said with a sigh, cutting his eyes at the older Holmes.
Mycroft nodded. "That would be acceptable. I'll put men on all three locations though. Will one of you be able to stay here tonight?" he asked, looking them over.
John nodded. "I will. I…I need to be with him right now. I can't help…" John looked lost for a moment.
"John, there is no guarantee that you going away led to any of this," Mycroft said, giving him a reassuring look.
John shook his head. "No, I should have seen how this was affecting him. Him and me, always was, and then I moved on without him. Should have seen it a little more clearly. I've been his only friend for a long time now…and I bet…I bet he felt like I was going to leave him for good on his own."
Mary put a hand on his shoulder. "John, come on, don't blame yourself. This…this man is at fault. But I'll stay here with you, okay? I don't want you alone all night." She smiled and kissed his cheek gently.
He put his hand on hers and nodded. "Alright, Greg, go get some rest, you look like shit."
Lestrade sighed and nodded. "Yes, Dr. Watson. Call if something changes," he said with a small smiled and left the room. John and Mary watched him leave, followed by Mycroft moments later.
John flopped down into a plush couch, his wife dropping beside him. "I just don't get how Sherlock didn't see this guy for what he was," he muttered.
She smiled and sighed. "Even Sherlock can be fooled, John," she said, chewing on her lip a bit.
He nodded. "It took so long, to get through losing him. You know, it was so hard, knowing that I was the single person in Sherlock's life that he had any true attachment to, the one who he looked to for help and to figure out what was right and wrong. He has such a hard time understanding his own emotions, and he's got them, you've seen them. He just…can't handle them, doesn't know how to, and he's like a child. And I ended up being his…what?" John rubbed his nose and leaned back. "His…brother? No, not really…more like a surrogate father, or something weird like that."
"Does that matter, John? He loves you dearly, and you love him. Stop trying to name it, there isn't a name for it. He is like a child. And scared that he's going to lose the person that grounds him. And this bloke used that against him somehow, finding out how much he loved and cared for you."
They both heard the door open and close and the doctor came in, and gave them a curious look. "I expected to find the detective inspector," he said. "You are?"
"Dr. John Watson, this is my wife Mary, I used to be Sherlock's flatmate, his best friend. We're going to stay here tonight.
"Alright, there's a couch in his room if you want to see him. He's still in the coma, though, and he's not showing signs of coming out of it yet. But a familiar presence might help. Stay here while I clear you with security," he said with a curt nod and left.
Fifteen minutes later, John and Mary were being escorted through a security checkpoint into a white hallway and toward a room at the end. The doctor nodded and waited for them near the door. The security officer opened the door and they went in, hearing it lock behind them. The doctor, Dr. Agustus Flemmel his badge said, went over to check the monitors and John and Mary moved over to see him.
"What the hell happened to him?" John breathed, taking note of the state of his face. "I mean, I know, but not the details, just the guy has abused him, but this…"
He reached out and gently moved his head so he could see the injuries. The bruising had turned an angry red along the left side of his jaw, and the right wasn't a whole lot better. The swelling in his nose had gone down a bit. Dr. Flemmel handed him the chart. John tried very hard to keep his doctor's face on as he read the details of what procedures had been done, the contents of the toxicology screenings, and the evidence they'd collected. It wasn't possible.
"The last attack was particularly viscous. It was obvious that he intended to finish him soon afterward. It was consistent with his other victims. The worst was done to them before they were given the overdose. From the levels of the other drugs, we can assume that the drugs were used before then. Of course, we have no idea what kind of psychological state he'll be left in when he wakes up," the doctor said with a nod toward him. "But he has some older bruising and signs of assault, though not as serious as the last one."
"Your prognosis on when he'll come out of the coma?" John said with a sigh, handing back the chart.
Dr. Flemmel replaced it on the foot of the bed. "Honestly, I have no real idea. Two hours, two days…two months. I can't say. Right now, it all depends on him."
The doctor left, and John sighed deeply. He pulled a chair beside the bed and took his friend's hand in his. "Oh, Sherlock. I'm sorry I wasn't there," he said, leaning down and putting his head on Sherlock's hand for a moment. He thought he caught the barest of flickers in those slender fingers and he glanced up, but nothing had changed. His imagination, surely.
Mary put her hands on his shoulders and massaged them gently. The relationship was so complex between John and Sherlock. It was like family, but deeper than that. Sherlock never let anyone into his life, and John was no doubt the first, and if not the first, the first in a very long time. She knew that other women might be jealous of the relationship they had, because frankly they acted more like a married couple than two best friends. But she found it amusing. She was certain that they would have grown old chasing criminals if she hadn't met John. And they would have been happy. Now she only hoped they could be happy again.
Hours later, after an orderly brought them a simple dinner, Mary and John fell asleep on the sofa leaning against each other. Both of them dreamed different things, but neither could shake the feelings of sadness and guilt that had crept into their minds. It wasn't strong, of course, but it was there, in the back of their minds, wondering if they hadn't left him alone, if this could have been avoided. But of course, it didn't matter in the end. Looking back with regret wouldn't change anything.
-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-
"You coming in today?" Donovan asked on the other end of the phone. There was a tightness to her voice that couldn't be missed.
"I'm going over to check on Sherlock and see how he's doing. See if he's woken up yet," Lestrade said, pulling his coat on as he spoke.
There was a silence as he headed to his car. "What, Sally?" he asked finally.
"I think you're worrying too much over the freak. He'll be fine. It isn't like he's got any feelings to hurt if you don't show up," she said with a derisive snort.
"Sally, look, if I hadn't let him on the crime scene, this wouldn't have happened. I have to take responsibility for it."
She huffed a sigh and told him she'd call if she needed him. Lestrade headed over to the hospital, and hoped that something would happen today to show that he'd wake up. As he drove he examined his own thoughts. He'd known Sherlock for a long time now, and he was still amazed at what he'd been willing to do to keep him, John and Mrs. Hudson safe. He let his entire reputation be ruined and then spent two years trying to make sure that they were safe from Moriarty's web. And then he came back when he was needed because someone else was threatening his friends, though in a different way. He had known Sherlock through so much of his life, from the strung out junkie that stumbled into a crime scene spouting off the solution to the murderer before he could stop him, to the man that gladly gave up everything to keep the few people he cared about safe. Through it all, it had been them, in a way. In some ways, Sherlock was more of constant in Lestrade's life than his family. At least Sherlock didn't betray him and sleep around like his wife.
He sighed as he parked the car and headed into the hospital and went past the ssecurity. It seemed unlikely that Verdal would come after him here. But he wondered really, what was his game? He was led into the room and saw that John and Mary had fallen asleep on the sofa together. He glanced over to see Sherlock for the first time since they loaded him into the bus. He grimaced. He was bruised and Lestrade sighed. He saw the chair pulled up next to him, so he sat down and took his slack hand for a moment and reached up and brushed the dark curls off his forehead. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the hand in his twitched and gripped him. He looked down and saw clear blue eyes staring at him.
"Sherlock!" he said with a smile.
Sherlock was confused. He was staring at the ceiling and Greg was there. The last he remembered Greg wasn't supposed to be there and he'd be in trouble for it again. He'd get mad, very mad, and that was a bad thing, a very bad thing. He wasn't at home. He'd get mad about that too. But then, why was he worried about that? Even at all? He shouldn't care…but just thinking about it made his stomach flip.
"W-wha…" he said, blinking and rolling his head to the side. "Where…" he muttered but his eyelids were so heavy.
"Shh, I'll page the doctor, you're fine, and you're in a private hospital. You're safe now. He can't hurt you in here, Sherlock," Lestrade said, grabbing the buzzer on the bedside, but not releasing Sherlock's hand. "John and Mary are here too, they got back yesterday morning and came to see you once you woke up."
Lestrade looked up, a little concerned at the way Sherlock's heart rate was accelerating. His eyes were darting around the room and his breathing was getting faster as he watched.
"Sherlock, don't worry, he's not here, he's not going to do anything to you again, okay? We won't let him, me, John, Mary, we won't let him hurt you again. I'm not sure what all happened, okay? But we know what he was doing. He was drugging you, we don't know how long, though. Not for sure, and there's some gaps you will have to fill in," he said, and heard movement behind him. He looked to see John walking over toward them.
"Oh Sherlock," John said, standing behind Lestrade. "You had us worried."
Sherlock blinked dully up at him. John was here. He wasn't here. Where had he gone too? Why was he here…and not at home…he didn't want him to go to the hospital…there were questions there. Too many questions…and he said they wouldn't understand.
The door opened and Dr. Flammel came into the room and smiled. "Ah, good to see you awake so soon, Sherlock, how are you feeling? We had to intubate you so your through is probably quite sore, I'm sorry about that, but after the overdose there wasn't much choice when your lungs started to fail."
Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to chase the answers as to what exactly was happening. Overdose…he hadn't taken anything…but what… He scrunched his eyes closed and found the doorway, the one with the kanji and he recoiled. "Lies…fake…" he muttered as he reached for the doorway, and opened it to be filled with the memories that he'd locked inside. Were they all lies? They seemed so real…
"What do you mean, Sherlock?" the doctor asked, taking his vitals.
"My head," he croaked, his voice rough. "Full of lies…half-truths…can't tell what is real…what…where's he?"
Lestrade exchanged a look with John. "We…we don't know right now Sherlock. He overdosed you on something, and we nearly lost you. We caught him, but he got away, someone helped him escape before we could turn him over to the Americans," he explained.
Sherlock's eyelids fluttered a second and half closed. "Mmm, shouldn't be out, not s'pose ta leave the flat…" he muttered and slipped into sleep again.
Lestrade looked a bit panicked but both John and the doctor looked okay. John put a hand on his back. "No worries, mate, he's going to sleep a lot now, get his body repaired. For the best, really, that way he can sleep through the worst of it."
Lestrade nodded and sighed deeply. "He said he wasn't supposed to leave the flat," he said with a strained look. "So we can assume he was controlling every small detail of his life during that time."
"It's like he accelerated the process of treating him as an abused partner by using the drugs to change his thoughts and convincing him of his willing participation," the doctor offered. "I suspect he'll react much more like a victim of long term abuse than someone who was simply attacked. He may have to sort through what is real and falsehoods that he was given. The amounts of drugs in his system would have left him willing to agree to about anything even if it went against everything he believed in."
Lestrade nodded and sat back in the chair, realizing that he was still clutching Sherlock's hand in his. He didn't bother to let go as Mary and John left to find breakfast. After about an hour, Mycroft came in and nodded an acknowledgement before picking up the clipboard and scanning the chart.
"He woke briefly," he stated, looking to Lestrade.
"Yeah, said something about his head being full of lies and half-truths, and then mentioned he wasn't supposed to be outside the flat," Lestrade said, standing slowly and popping his back loudly in the quite room.
Mycroft nodded and let out a long sigh. "Lestrade, how much do you know about my brother and his relationships with others?" he asked finally.
Lestrade shook his head. "Not much at all. He always said he was more concerned with mental pursuits than anything physical and saw it a waste of time."
"Yes, he did. For that reason, the closest thing to a relationship that Sherlock has ever had is the one he shares with you and John," he said thoughtfully, moving to stroke his younger brother's hair from his face. "His relationship with me is…complicated. And he's tried his best to cope with the world, but it hasn't always worked, since he more than once has sunk into drug use. But the fact is, my brother has never been in a romantic relationship at all."
Lestrade frowned and looked at him. "Wait, he's never had a romantic relationship? Never had a girlfriend or boyfriend or even a one night stand?"
Mycroft nodded. "Not in his entire life. So if your question is if he'd ever had sex, the answer is no. And while Sherlock is not the sentimental sort, to have a relationship forced onto him like this, complete with cohabitation, sex, and loss of control to someone else, I fear he may react badly once his head has cleared. In fact, I'm not even sure that Sherlock has ever even acknowledged his body's sexual desires at all."
Lestrade glanced at him. "Wait, you mean he didn't, you know, have those problems when he was a kid? The whole wet dreams and random chubs?"
Mycroft shook his head. "I believe he was quite shocked when he was reading a book on human sexuality at seven and found out what those particular organs were meant to do. He came to me and pointed to a diagram of the sex organs and told me how ridiculous the whole process of sex was and how useless it was. I tried to explain the concept of reward chemicals and he just stated that there were other ways besides something so very crass and inelegant. Then, he went back to reading. An hour later he came back in complaining about the whole masturbation issue, and looked at me and asked me if I did that." Mycroft had a fond smile on his face. "I wasn't sure how to answer him. I went through the curiosity phase early as well, but Sherlock was positively disgusted by the whole process. From that day on, he insisted it was an unnecessary bodily function that he could certainly do without. As far as I know, he's never even experienced the slightest bit of sexual desire, thus I've come to the conclusion he is a purely asexual. I am not sure how this will affect him."
Lestrade sighed deeply. Great, he was going to have a very confused and distraught man in his flat for who knew how long once he came out of the hospital. He groaned and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Any luck with Verdal?"
Mycroft shook his head. "He seems to have gone underground. We're still working on it, though. The doctor says that should he continue to improve they can release him in a few days. I will send someone over with anything you may need. I've already arranged for a security system to be installed in the house. Now, please, let me know if there is anything else I can help you with, I'll be going…"
"Myc?" came Sherlock's voice and Mycroft started at the use of his nickname that Sherlock rarely used.
He moved over to stand beside his head again. "Sherlock, are you feeling any better?"
Sherlock's eyes were clouded. "Myc, I don't understand…everything is all messed up…" he said softly, brows knitting together.
Mycroft sighed and allowed himself this one day of sentimentality toward his little brother. "Sherlock, you'll figure things out. Just know that this is real, and a lot of what you remember is the result of as state of drug induced high suggestibility. There are thoughts and ideas in your mind right now that are not your own. You must sort them out and delete them as soon as possible."
Sherlock nodded. "I'm…scared he's going to be mad."
"You don't have to be. He's gone, Sherlock. He's not coming back."
Sherlock's brow creased and he looked positively lost for a moment. "But…he said he wouldn't leave me alone again…"
"He was lying, Sherlock, remember?" he said, glancing over at Lestrade, who looked bothered by what Sherlock was saying.
Sherlock swallowed. "What's fake, though…" he muttered… "Is it all lies, Myc? All of it?"
Mycroft's face softened. "I don't know, Sherlock, I really don't. He was a serial killer, and you got caught in the middle. You were supposed to die, like his other victims, but Lestrade got to you before it was too late. He lied to you. He had no purpose other than to use you for his own devices, Sherlock."
Sherlock still looked lost and hurt. "So…he didn't love me like he said."
Mycroft's heart clenched at the broken sound to his voice. "No, but there are people that do, and he probably told you that no one else loved you. It was lies. John loves you, Mary, and Greg there too. Sherlock, and I don't say it, but I do as well. This man, this Aaron…" Mycroft watched as a shudder when through him at the mention of his name. "He wasn't what he said he was. There is more, and it is complicated, and I'm sorry that I wasn't aware of the situation before it happened. But my people didn't know."
Shelock frowned and grimaced, reaching up and touching his jaw. "That hurts."
"He dislocated your jaw. Do you remember when that happened?" Lestrade said, leaning up in his chair. Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I…I spoke to Mali…in Thai. He was mad that…that I was showing off. I tried to tell him I spoke before I thought…he kicked me," he said, rubbing the side of his jaw. "It hurt. I though he broke it. And it…it cleared out my head…I could think proper for a minute, and I wanted to get away from him right then…and knew I needed to…but he had me pinned down and remember…I punched him in the groin and got to my feet…I was almost to the door when he grabbed my ankle," he said, reaching up and touching his nose. "I fell and that's when my nose broke. He was mad…so mad…" he spoke with his eyes widening. "I don't think he'd been that mad before…but I never tried to run…never thought of it for some reason. Why didn't I? Why'd I just stay there instead of leaving?"
"Sherlock, you were drugged to the gills. It was a wonder you were even conscious, let alone able to consider doing anything but what he said to do," Lestrade said, taking his hand again. "How did this all start, Sherlock? I need to know that much."
"The Italian restaurant, where I helped Devon get out of the mafia…we….we were all over the back allies and my network all day, looking for the hitman's boss…and he wanted to eat and I treid to tell him to take me home but he was driving, so I couldn't do much. Then he…" Sherlock frowned. "He drank out of my wine glass. Made some lewd remark when I told him I bought the bottle so I could fill it. I started feeling weird and he said I drank too much. But I didn't I know I didn't…and I said so but he said no, I'd drank too much…"
Sherlock swallowed then, looking up. "That was real. I know that was real. It wasn't in the room with the lies… I don't know what happened, I just remember being scared of him, and trapped, and he…" Sherlock paused, face twisting in something between disgust and fear. "The bed, he took me there…and told me things and…" He shook his head. "I asked him the next morning what happened and why he was in my bed, and I felt so sick. He said we'd talked about John and how he'd abandoned me for his new wife, and how I told him I needed someone…but that's not right because that's not what happened, I don't remember that but I do. How can I remember it and not remember it?"
Lestrade squeezed his hand. "He was giving you a drug mixture. It made you very sleepy and quiet, and it made you believe the things he told you. With your brain, I imagine the things he said took on a very lifelike quality. Do you know when he gave it to you? It might have been in a drink or food."
"The tea, he made me tea every morning and would get very upset if I said I didn't want it," he said and his hand went to his side automatically. Just as Lestrade thought. He'd started hitting him almost immediately to get him in his control. Sherlock would touch whatever he'd hurt whenever he spoke about it.
"I'm sure that was it, Sherlock. What other things did he tell you?" Lestrade said, leaning a bit closer and eyeing Mycroft who was watching him across the bed.
Sherlock swallowed, closing his eyes. "He said that no one was to come in the flat…it was…it was our sanctuary, so when you came by, he got really upset…" he said, and again, he cradled his arms around his midsection with a frown. "But he said he was sorry, and that's when he said he'd take me out for the Thai food, and then…" he looked down to see his hands were shaking. "I'm so confused, I don't like this," he said finally, running his hands over his head.
"I want him still, why do I want someone who did those things? That…oh," he said with a groan and a look of pure emotional pain passed his face. "I don't want to think about it," he said, eyes closing. "Not now," he said. "I'm going to sleep," he said finally and rolled to his side with some effort, hissing as he jostled the ribs that had been damaged. But a few moments later, he was sleeping somewhat peacefully.
"I'm going, we have to find him," Mycroft said, turning on his heels and leaving abruptly.
Lestrade leaned back in the chair and ran his hands through is graying hair. He wondered how he was going to get Sherlock through this. There was a gentle knock and the door opened revealing a smartly dressed woman with long blonde hair and glittering blue eyes behind a set of wire framed silver glasses. She wore a dress suit of a sensible gray with a pair of black flats.
"Detective inspector Lestrade," she said, glancing over at the sleeping form. "May I have a word with you? My name is Dr. Annastace Clearmount. I'm the psychiatric consult for this floor. I understand that you will be taking Sherlock in until the danger to him has passed."
Lestrade nodded. "I have the room and I've known Sherlock a long time. And I also don't want to see him back on drugs because of this."
She smiled gently and they sat down on the couch furthest away. "Now, I need to make sure you are aware of some of the things you should expect."
Lestrade was pretty sure that he knew what was coming, and none of it was going to be pretty at all.
"First of all, as a male victim of sexual assault, he may become aggressive. It often happens. He also may take that out on anyone around him. Especially since he was convinced that he was willing to participate in his own assaults. He'll have to come to terms with the fact that he was drugged, and thus was not consenting. He will have been told that he agreed to what was done to him. He had no ability to fight off his attacker, nor even voice to tell him no. He will have a hard time with that.
"The emotional abuse may be harder to deal with. No doubt he was convinced of his position as inferior to this man. We don't know the extent, but the room is recorded, so I was listening in on the conversation you had with him a little bit earlier. I'd expect him to lash out, and either try to escape contact with others or seek it out actively," she said with a nod.
"Seek it out? Sherlock? He never seeks out contact with others."
"He's had a severe trauma. He may need to feel 'safe contact', meaning being touched or held without being hurt, or without any expectations placed on him. No doubt, the only times he was touched by his abuser were to initiate a sexual union or to hurt him, or to 'make up' for hurting him. And he may become sexually excitable because of his previous inexperience. He may seek out someone to have a safe sexual encounter with, and he may question his sexuality. I believe his brother termed him as an asexual?" she said.
Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, he's never been in any kind of relationship, though he does get on better with blokes than women, not that he ever gets along well with anyone particularly well…"
She nodded. "He might lash out, yell, and try to force you away 'for your own good'. Watch out for this, because it is essential you not abandon him at any time he becomes emotional. From what I've gotten from others, he doesn't show emotion often. When he does begin to display them, they may be erratic and unstable."
"So, he'll basically try and piss me off like he always does?" he asked, drolly with an eyebrow cocked.
She smiled. "I'll try and work with him before he's released, but considering his views on therapists, I'm not sure I'll be able to do much good."
"That's an understatement," Lestrade said with a sigh.
-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-
"What do you mean?" came the abnormally high voice across the phone.
"Just what I said. I doubt he'll be doing anything soon," answered the man on the other end. "This guy fucked with him pretty good."
"He had no right to touch him."
"I know, but…"
"No, no, he is mine. That is all there is to it. It is not up to anyone except me to hurt him. You will find him. And you will bring him to me. And I will deal with anyone who tries to interfere in what is mine."
"Yes, okay, but Mycroft's men can't even locate…"
"Do I sound like I care what dull, boring old Mycroft can do? I'm telling you to find him. I will destroy him completely for daring interfere with me. What did he do to him?"
The man holding the mobile cleared his throat. "He's beat up good, but I guess he drugged him and was using him, manipulating him, feeding him false information, you know, abusive partner behavior stuff…" he said, hoping he didn't get an explosion from the other end.
"What?" came the all too calm response.
"He was living there, at Baker Street, guess he had him all locked up like little princess in a tower, not letting him out, and you know. Taking advantage of it."
The silence on the other end was somehow worse than what could have been said. "So he ruined my pet."
"I…I guess you could say that…" he said tentatively.
"I want him. Here. Yesterday."
The line went dead and Sebastian Moran ran a hand through his hair slowly. Fuck, he did not want to be in that bastard's shoes when Jim got ahold of him. Not at all. Jim Moriarty was nothing if not possessive over his playthings, and he was adamant that the Virgin would be his at all costs. And after the game on top of Bart's, he'd been planning a big reveal soon. But now, plans had to change. And he was going to end up revealing himself much earlier than the plan had entailed.
