A/N: Hello beautiful readers! Thanks for reading, reviewing, etc. I am also a sucker for 'Hurt Sherlock' fics. I'm just thrilled to be writing on that isn't a total bust! :D sorry this chapters short, but enjoy! ;)
Chapter Thirty Five: Damnation
Bindings had once again found their way to John's wrist. Rough hands clasped his shoulders leading him down dimly lit hallways. There wasn't much there except for the occasional door or the flickering light. The pair of hands clenched down on his shoulders halting him in front of a large metal door. Only this one was different from the rest. It possessed a window; light seeping through it.
"In." The man behind him shoved him stumbling into the room.
Inside the room there was a chair seated in the middle. But what struck him was the square of light illuminating the wall. The source was not far from the chair, a projector was placed on a cart beside it.
"Hello Johnny Boy!" Chirped an Irish voice from behind him. "Please do take a seat, wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable, now would we?"
John couldn't help but scoff at this, but quickly resigned into the chair. No matter how little was offered, he was willing to take what kindness was given.
"What is all this?"
"This, my dear pet, is the damnation of your dearest detective."
A faint click sounded and the screen adjusted into a picture. Horror struck John. The inside of 221b was dancing on the wall before him. Sherlock was slumped down in John's chair,his body curling in on himself.
"You see, Sherlock isn't doing very good without his trusty blogger."
"Sherlock!" yelled John thrusting himself towards the screen.
"Oh Johnny, he can't hear you so please do calm down."
If John hadn't know the man beside him he could have mistake what his said with sympathy. In ways that disturbed him he was an excellent actor. It vaguely reminded him of Sherlock and his escapades. Revulsion lurched inside him stomach creating a turmoil of disgust.
"How can I? Why are you doing this?"
"Why does anyone do anything? - but really it's because I can and I ENJOY it!" raged Moriarty swarming John's face.
John turned his attention to the screen averting his gaze away from the psychopath. He could faintly feel his moist breath pulsating on his cheek. His body wracked with tremors at the feeling. Looking towards the detective he noticed that Sherlock hadn't moved much. Now his sleeves were rolled up. His fingers ghosted over the crook of his elbow.
What was he doing?
The flesh that he was caressing looked- wrong. It appeared matted. Tearing his gaze away from the flat he stole a glance at Moriarty. The man himself seemed to be studying him. His studying was a lot different than Sherlock's. Moriarty's was unnerving. He felt as thought he'd been striped of all clothes bare for the entire world to see.
"What's on his arm?" John peeped, half wishing he hadn't.
A grin spread on the Irish man's face. "I thought you'd never ask. But don't you want to use those detective skills that Sherlock taught you? I'm sure your doctor skills would come in handy as well."
"I don't want to play games Moriarty!" Snapped John.
"Ooh! Looks like someones found their man hood."
"Just tell me."
"Always ruining all the fun aren't we doctor Watson?"
John just grunted in response.
"I thought it was bluntly obvious. Although, I do like to watch him, unlike some people. Any who! He burnt himself Johnny boy."
"Like, he was in a fire?" Panic seized John's chest at the oncoming dread.
Jim sighed beside him. Clicking his remote a few times the picture changed. Now Sherlock was in the kitchen standing before a lit Bunsen burner, metal spoon clasped in his palm.
"Oh… God." gasped John.
"You see, it wasn't the fire that did it per say, but it certainly proved a helping hand." Moriarty informed him prancing around ostentatiously at the site before him; he was giddy with the pain Sherlock was enduring.
"You're sick." Stammered John.
"Yes, this is true. But so is Sherlock, inflicting that kind of pain on himself."
He couldn't peel his eyes away, not even to rebel against Jim's assumptions. He didn't know Sherlock did this, burning. Self mutilation and drugs were enough to deal with. How many other scars was he hidings? How many compulsions?
"You see John, he can't seem to make any progress on finding you. Everything is just too much for a our dear distraught detective right now."
"He'll find me," whispered John helplessly.
John could feel the man snickering beside him. "Not if he's to carry on like this, best pray pet." Moriarty purred against John's ear.