I found this list on livejournal of some prompts (64 of them, to be precise) and they're here: 64damn-prompts dot livejournal dot com slash profile . This one is inspired by number thirty seven, "kind".

Warnings: rated T for torture. Also, I am very, very bad at Russian accents, so correct me if I'm wrong, please.

You can totally skip this and have lost nothing in your MorMor experience. This is a mostly Jim-centered chapter anyway.

-line break-

[Six months before A Study In Pink]

Jim Moriarty walked through the doors of the warehouse pleasantly, looking forward to his next torture session (he'll be inflicting, not being inflicted upon). Normally, he'd let his lackeys or Sebastian handle something like this and just kill the guy, but he got so bored, and this was really, really fun.

There was a man sitting in a wooden chair in a dark, otherwise-empty-except-for-the-table-with-the-tort ure-implements room. His ankles and wrists were zip-tied to the legs and armrests of the chair. He was with the law enforcement in Russia, and he was a good man, not corrupt at all, working for the people. It hadn't cost much to have him kidnapped and sent over to Cardiff, which was where he currently was. The Russian interpretor was late. Jim was tempted to have his toenails ripped off for that, but decided he'd just have to wait for a little longer.

There was no stopping him from playing with and intimidating his captive.

He walked into the room and ripped the bag off of his captive's head. "Why, hello there," he says, feigning surprise. "What're you doing in this place? What could you possibly have done to end up here? Oh, that's right," Jim's voice, while still playful, darkened a little, and his lips curled up in a wicked smile. "You didn't do what you were supposed to. You didn't ignore aaaaallllll of those little disappearances like a good little boy. You tried to investigate and rescue the poor, unfortunate souls!" This last part was sung like Ursula from The Little Mermaid, a villain he was quite fond of.

"You are wermin, scum, garbage." The Russian man said in heavily accented English.

Jim beamed at him in delight and surprise. That was unexpected. He was listed as monolingual in his file. Jim made a mental note to correct that along with the man's current status: alive. Only after killing him, of course. "Why, aren't you the clever one, knowing two different languages! Now I don't have to wait for the translator! Brilliant!"

"I will not tell you anysing!" The man proclaimed angrily, though his face betrayed his fear.

"Oh, I think you will," Jim said in a light tone that was still ominous for the policeman.

Jim, lightning quick, grabbed the Russian's hand and tapped each one of his fingers as if playing a game. The Russian watched him with dread. Viktor, his name was.

"So, Vicky, which of your fingers do you value the least?" Jim asks innocently, like he's asking whether he prefers the color blue or green.

"Do not call me that," Viktor snarls, and Jim ignores him.

"Pinky finger it is, then," he says, and starts bending the finger backwards. Viktor bit his lip to keep from crying out.

"So, Vicky, why is it that you've decided to ignore your gut feeling and track down those itty bitty children that went missing? I'm sure you realized that this was something above you." Jim asked, again using the same innocent tone he always begins with.

"You bastard," Viktor says, and Jim snaps the finger, feeling quite happy that Viktor gasps in pain.

"You shouldn't have stuck your nose where it doesn't belong, Vicky!" Jim says, his voice turning sing-song as he grasps another finger. "Shouldn't have," snap "shouldn't have," snap "shouldn't have!" snap

Tears are rolling down the Russian's face, but he only snarls at Jim instead of weeping like Jim wants. Well, at least this one will be fun to break.

And then he spits at Jim's, but misses his face, and the saliva lands on Jim's suit.

Jim's Westwood.

Something in Jim snaps, and it isn't a finger.

He grabs a hammer and smashes it into Viktor's kneecap. Viktor screams, so Jim smashes the other one, too.

"That was my suit," Jim says, his voice dark and angry with rage. "My Westwood suit. That was a very, very bad decision, Vicky. You really shouldn't have done that. You haven't seemed to be making the best decisions lately, have you? No, I think not."

The mans' screams echo throughout the room for hours more after that, until they're cut silent with a gurgle as Jim slits his throat, jumping backwards to avoid any more unnecessary fluids on his suit.

"I'll have to have it dry cleaned," Jim Moriarty mused as he left the building.

Instead of posting these all in one fic, should I delete "MorMor Shots" and instead post each individual chapter as its own one shot story, since not many people are following this anyway?