Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.
Warnings: Angst, slight references to non-con.
A/N: Major thanks to TheTenthPower, RedRibbonsGirl, magirl0413, Nostalgic Beauty, , bloodsoakedleather, KingHerod, ShiverandShamy, Zonya, Anonmoi, HeartsNaruto, bamf1010, damelia0evenshire, Zacha, Kookie Killer and SherWatsonLocked for the magical reviews. Really appreciate it.
A/N: Oh God. It's been so long since I updated. I assure you I'm punching myself repeatedly in the face even as I type.
~III~
"Game time!"
John started.
Moriarty's voice seemed especially loud and jarring, given the hour of silence that preceded it. He and Sherlock were still sat on the floor, in exactly the same positions.
Not talking.
Not looking at one another.
"Oh come on boys, look alive!" Moriarty beamed. "I've brought treats!"
On cue, one of his men wheeled a trolley into the room. The same trolley that John had been strapped to.
His stomach constricted painfully and he had to look away, shaking his head to prevent the memories from flooding in.
Focus, said survival voice. You need to be in the here and now. Whatever's on that tray isn't going to be pretty.
John braced himself, expecting knives or whips or some archaic torture device that Moriarty wanted to try out on them. He lifted his head and saw…
Food.
A bowl of soup, what looked like a steak of some kind, and a chocolate mousse. All as beautifully presented as if they were straight from some gourmet restaurant.
"I'd like to say I prepared them myself, but I'm not much of a chef…"
Moriarty fixed his gaze on John.
"No patience, you see, Johnny. Promise me something delicious and I'll want to eat it straight away."
He licked his lips exaggeratedly.
Sherlock snorted.
"Can we expect a break from this tedious innuendo any time soon, Jim? I'm beginning to feel as though I'm in a Carry On film."
"Oh I'm sorry, Sherlock. Would you like me to be less coy?" Moriarty's eyes flashed dark. "I was simply referring to the fact that very soon I'm going to be fucking John until he begs me to put him out of his misery."
Moriarty's lips curled in a twisted smile.
John felt nausea rising, and before he could stop it, he was bent double, retching. But there was nothing in his stomach to come up, save for the bitter taste of bile that burned his throat.
Sherlock was over in a second.
"John? John, are you alright?"
"Oh poppet," Moriarty crooned from above. "Feeling sickly? What you need's a nice hot meal."
"We're not eating that food," Sherlock snapped. He wanted to reach out and take John's hand but he knew he couldn't risk the physical contact, not in front of Jim.
"I haven't poisoned it, Sherlock." Moriarty rolled his eyes. "That'd be far too obvious."
"Regardless," Sherlock said, still focussed on John.
"Oh, really now."
Moriarty crouched down beside them. His voice had taken on a cloying note of concern.
"I'm worried about you both, really I am. You need to eat. Keep your strength up. Lots of games ahead to get through, after all…"
He reached out and began rubbing circles on John's back. John shivered, but he couldn't muster the energy to shy away.
Pick your battles.
Sherlock's hands were twitching to smack Jim's away but he knew he should restrain himself. But the sight of Jim rubbing John's back, such an intimate and tender motion…
"We don't want it. End of discussion. Go away."
"Is that how you feel too, pet?" Moriarty was leaning in to whisper in John's ear. "Look at Sherlock. Don't you think he looks tired? Even thinner than usual? Don't you think he needs to eat something?"
He could be right. Sherlock may think he's superhuman but he needs food like anyone.
If he gets weak…
"What's the game?" John said roughly.
"Good boy! See Sherlock, someone's getting into the spirit of things."
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it again. Perhaps there was a way he could secure food for John, even to his own detriment. It was worth a try…
Moriarty stood up and tapped the trolley.
"Now, every game has a winner and a loser. The fun part of this one is you get to decide who wins and who loses straight away!"
He clapped his hands.
"So. You choose which one of you is the winner. And then that person gets to eat. Starter, main, dessert. And let me tell you boys, the chocolate mousse is to die for…"
Moriarty giggled, before putting on a solemn face.
"The other person is, sad face, the loser. So for every course the winner eats, the loser must complete a forfeit."
"What are the forfeits?" Sherlock ground out.
"IT'S A GAME!" Moriarty suddenly shouted, taking even Sherlock by surprise. He smiled sweetly, relishing their shock.
"So you'll have to play to find out, won't you?"
He dropped his voice lower.
"But I warn you. Once you've started playing the game, there's no backing out. You can't stop just because you don't like the forfeit. You have to be in it, as they say, to win it."
"What if we did drop out?" Sherlock couldn't resist asking.
Suddenly, Jim's face twisted into something ugly.
"Oh, trust me Sherlock. You don't want to find out what the penalty for quitting is."
Something prickled at the base of Sherlock's spine.
"Anyway, I'll leave you two to consult for a minute." Moriarty said, walking towards the door.
"And remember, you're free not to play. I can just take all of this lovely food away..."
With that, he left.
Sherlock looked at John, who was propped against the wall again, drawing in ragged breaths.
John needed sustenance. And for that he was willing to take whatever punishment Jim could dish out.
"I say we do it." He said crisply. "He's going to make us play his little games anyway, at least this one benefits one of us."
"I agree," John said slowly. "As long as you're the one eating."
"Don't be absurd." Sherlock said. "I'm the one who can go days on end without touching food. I'm not even hungry, John."
"It's not a discussion, Sherlock," John said stubbornly and Sherlock recognised the look in his eyes. It was the patented John Watson 'My mind is made up and no power of earth will move me' glare.
He began to form several arguments in his head, then abandoned them. This called for a tactical manoeuvre.
He sighed heavily.
"Very well, John. Have it your way. I can see you're deaf to persuasion."
John looked slightly suspicious but Sherlock kept a resigned look on his face, and willed his ruse to work.
"Okay," said John eventually, and got unsteadily to his feet. Sherlock stood up with him, and watched as his friend took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was next.
"Moriarty!" John called. If Sherlock didn't know the man as well as he did, he'd say John seemed unafraid.
Jim sauntered back into the room.
"Well? Are we going to play with Daddy?"
John nodded.
"And? Who's the lucky winner?"
"John is," Sherlock said instantly.
John's head whipped round to face Sherlock.
"No, I'm not! It's Sherlock."
"This is interesting," Jim drawled. "Discord in the ranks?"
"No discord," Sherlock said quickly. "John's the winner."
"Sherlock, you said…" John looked agonised. He turned back to face Moriarty.
"It's him. I promise you."
"No it's not." Sherlock said.
Moriarty yawned melodramatically.
"Boring! I think… I'll have to take your first answer. Congratulations to Johnny, today's winner!"
"No!" John shouted. "We agreed-"
Moriarty moved very fast, covering John's mouth with his hand in a split second.
"I'm sorry, Johnny. The judge's decision is final, and no correspondence will be entered into."
The feel of Moriarty's hand on John's mouth shut down the voice of protest in his brain. He felt ill, in such close proximity to the man who…
Not the time.
"Come along, then. Let's go claim your prize."
Moriarty clicked, and two henchmen came in, grabbing Sherlock and John and forcing them along the corridor, into the same room they had been shocked in.
Only now it was set up as a parody of a romantic restaurant. There was a dining table in the middle of the room; complete with purple tablecloth, patterned china crockery, and a single red rose in a vase in the middle.
John felt so sick he was sure he couldn't eat a bite.
"Sit down, sit down," Moriarty instructed John as he wheeled the trolley in and began transferring the dishes to the table.
John slowly took a seat. There was another chair, close to his, but when Sherlock went to sit down, Moriarty spoke.
"Ah ah ah. That's not for you, Sherlock. I've saved you a place over here."
Moriarty gestured to the now empty trolley, straps hanging by the side.
Sherlock's jaw line tightened for a second, but he strode over with a sneer on his face. He ran his fingers on the steel edge.
"Memento, is it, Jim? From your mental hospital days?"
John looked round at that. Moriarty's face had darkened.
"Well, well. You have been doing your homework, haven't you?"
Sherlock had never told John that Moriarty had been in a mental hospital.
Suppose there's a lot he hasn't told me.
John briefly wondered how Moriarty could ever have been released. Then again, it wouldn't be surprising if he'd managed to trick the psychiatrists into letting him go.
Or maybe he made a run for it.
John had a sudden mad image of Moriarty running along the streets in a straightjacket, pulling the trolley behind him.
He felt a hysterical laugh bubble up inside of him and fought to suppress it.
Don't lose it. Not now.
"I think it's sweet that you kept a little reminder," Sherlock said coolly. "Do you miss it, Jim? Sat by yourself in that windowless room, sedated to your eyeballs, completely powerless? Do you ever wonder if you'll end up back there?"
Moriarty raised a hand in anger, then seemed to instantly think better of it. Instead, he snapped his fingers at the two men waiting in the corner.
"Strap him down," he said dismissively and turned his back on Sherlock, walking back to the table where John sat.
Sherlock gritted his teeth as the men roughly shoved him down on the table. But he couldn't suppress a secret thrill of pleasure at being able to get under Jim's skin.
Mental hospital may be an angle worth pursuing. Clearly harbouring feelings of resentment, rage, possibly fear. If said feelings can be exploited to-
"Wait," Moriarty said, returning to the trolley. He leaned over and began unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, before pulling it off his shoulders.
"Silk is so expensive, Sherlock." Moriarty's eyes were black. "I'd hate for it to get ruined with the things we're about to do."
~III~
Okay, don't hate me but I have to leave it there for now! In my (lame) defence, I'm super tired. But I promise (promise, promise) the second half to this chapter will be up v. soon.