This part is somewhat graphic. Please read with caution, or if you are susceptible to triggery images, you may want to stay away.
/
He woke up in complete darkness. No, that wasn't quite right. He was blindfolded, but the room was bright beyond the blindfold. His wrists and ankles were lashed tightly and stretched taut so that he couldn't move enough to loosen them. He went through the files in his head, searching for the one that could tell him how he had gotten into this situation, what had happened last. He'd been on a case. He'd been in an office building, waiting for an informant. It had been someone he'd trusted. Luke Redmond. Early twenties, worked as a legal courier. He'd been a great resource. Luke must have fallen in with someone who wanted Sherlock out of the way. Gotta move Luke to a different folder… Sherlock ran a diagnostic scan of his body. Bruising around the face, cheekbone likely fractured. Right leg broken, numb yet throbbing. Headache, nausea, ringing ears; likely concussion. He was lying on a very firm mattress, cuffed with leather restraints to the head and foot boards. He couldn't determine how long he'd been unconscious because of the blindfold. The floor board creaked. "Do you remember what I told you about prying, Sherlock?" Moriarty. "I believe that I was quite clear when I made that point…" Sherlock sneered in the direction of Moriarty's voice. "Is this your solution, then? Assault me and then frighten me into compliance?" Sherlock was not afraid of Moriarty, he told himself. Not even vulnerable and helpless as he was. All he had to do was outsmart his nemesis. Moriarty chuckled darkly, brooding. "Do you think I have no imagination whatsoever? No, no. I'm going to break you, and have some fun doing it." Sherlock took a sharp breath, as he heard other footsteps enter the room, probably acting on some nonverbal signal from Moriarty. He was confused for a moment when he felt someone unfastening the belts on his ankles. Before he could fully comprehend what was about to happen, he was flipped onto his stomach, his arms crossing one another inevitably. He yelped as his broken leg was jerked painfully against the mattress. Sherlock tried desperately to draw nearer to the top of the bed to release the strain on his crossed arms, but before he could make any headway, his legs were refastened into place. He gasped when a knife sliced through the back of his pants and cut down the left leg. The knife severed the right pant leg as well, and then someone stripped the entirety of the cloth out from under him. Sherlock was too shocked, too scandalized to say anything at first. When Moriarty placed a caressing finger between his cheeks, however, he found that he could speak. "Get your fucking hands off me! I will murder you, Jim, I will murder you so slowly that you'll wish I would just shoot you!" Empty threats that came from panic. Sherlock couldn't act on them and he knew that.
Moriarty was not impressed. He clucked his tongue and pulled back his finger. "Sherlock, I don't like it when my virgin says such foul words." Sherlock flinched violently when Moriarty's finger suddenly probed deeply inside of him. "I swear to god, I'll…" Sherlock gasped as Moriarty pulled his index finger out quickly. Just as quickly, Moriarty had shoved the finger inside Sherlock's open mouth and rubbed against his tongue maliciously. "Do you like how you taste, sweetheart?" Moriarty said, mockingly. "Mmm…I can't wait to taste you…" The man bent over Sherlock's back and bit at his ear. Sherlock writhed and tried to bite down on Moriarty's finger, but the placement of Jim's hand wouldn't allow it.
The finger was removed and suddenly Moriarty was on the bed, straddling his thighs. Sherlock heard a zipper undone, and felt Moriarty's hands cupping his arse tightly. "Stop," he said, quietly, as Moriarty spread his cheeks painfully. "Stop, stop. Please just…please stop," Sherlock said loudly, begging pathetically.
"Oh, no, I can't stop, darling," Moriarty teased. "Ooh, can't stop now…"
"Sherlock!" The voice snapped his eyes open. Sherlock blinked in the low lamplight of the sitting room. He was covered in sweat, breathing harshly, painfully against his broken ribs.
John was half-sitting, half-lying next to him on his pallet. He looked terribly alarmed in his half-asleep state. "Sherlock," John said again. "Wake up…"
Sherlock blinked at him, turning away for a moment to swipe angrily at the tear in his left eye. "I am awake, John," Sherlock said, irritably.
John took a visible breath in relief. "Sorry. It's just…I've been trying to wake you for two minutes, and your eyes were open the whole time…you were screaming, mate…"
Sherlock looked away. "I'm sorry for disturbing your sleep, John," he said bitterly.
John sighed. Typical of Sherlock to take it that way. "No," John said, patiently. "You just…I was worried about you. You were having a pretty awful nightmare from the sounds…"
"Shut up, now," Sherlock warned. "Go back to your room. I don't want your company right now…in fact I don't want your company for the rest of the day."
John stared at him, mouth agape. "Sherlock…" he said, quietly. He nevertheless stood up, taking up his pillow as he went. "I only wanted to…help," he whispered.
Sherlock frowned and rolled onto his side, angrily. He tried to convince himself that he didn't need John, didn't want him. All John wanted to do was pity him. Pity never worked. It was a waste of energy, and it was degrading. Sherlock could manage this on his own, just as he'd managed all the other struggles in his life.