Hi again darlings! My life goal is 200 reviews or follows.. :) One of my stories has 190, but I'd love for this story to get the big 200!
If they had Lissie at 18, then Sherlock would be 33, which fits nicely with the show but makes for a pretty young dad!
Lissie watched in horror as they untied Sherlock and forced him to walk away.
"Where are you taking him?," she asked.
"Don't worry; he's just going to deduce a few things for us. At least, hope for your sake that he will."
One of Moriarty' s men locked her back in the cell. Alone and cold, she lay there and tried to bandage her arm. The cuts were dripping little rivulets of blood.
Though exhausted, she did not sleep. She waited for Sherlock to return. There was no clock or window, and she wondered what time it was. Late at night, probably.
They threw him in hours later. He found her in the corner, a shivering, bleeding mess.
Suddenly he was hugging her - a real hug - and she hugged back, getting warm.
"You're freezing," he observed, removing his coat and helping her into it. It fit her like a dress.
"Nice," he added with a little grin. She put her arms back around him, feeling comforted. His strong arms held her tightly.
She lifted a worried face. "Did they hurt you?"
"Oh, not too bad. Definitely not as bad as they hurt you."
"I'm okay."
They were both sitting against the wall, long legs stretched out. He kept looking at her in the coat.
"You're staring at me?"
"Oh, sorry... It's just, your mother, she was always wearing my coat." He smiled sadly. "I'd take her hand, and she'd be so cold... but she'd deny it until I draped my coat over her."
He was talking more to himself than Lissie, but she snuggled up to him and laid her head on his shoulder.
She must have fallen asleep like that, even with the light on, finally feeling safe and warm.
Sherlock had felt it first when he took her, freezing, into his arms, but it was when she laid her little head on his shoulder that he knew it with certainty- he loved Lissie. And he would do anything to get her out of this.
He was surprised their tormentors had left them alone for so long. No sooner had he thought it than Moriarty appeared.
Sherlock felt like crying, screaming, cursing...anything. But he looked up quietly and said, "What?"
Lissie was a light sleeper; she stirred and sat up. At the sight of Moriarty, she burrowed back into Sherlock.
Moriarty had a whip. And he was smiling.
"You wouldn't answer one of my questions earlier, Sherlock. I thought I'd give you this time to think it over before I pressured you," he gestured at the whip, "and Lissie."
Moriarty asked something Lissie couldn't quite hear, and Sherlock made a strangled sound deep in his throat. "Lissie," he said very quietly," telling him how to do that would destroy Britain."
Instantly she knew what he meant. He was afraid she would get hurt. "We can handle it."
He smiled at her before Moriarty grabbed him. She closed her eyes and heard the whip cracking, but Sherlock did not cry out.
"How?!" Moriarty screeched, still wanting an answer.
When the only sound was Sherlock panting, Moriarty elbowed him aside. "Have it your way. I didn't expect you to play along. Remember how the whip felt on your back? Imagine how it feels to -" he grabbed Lissie' s arm- "your daughter." He ripped Sherlock' s coat off of her and began to whip her through her thin dress.
It stung. Every little bit was ripping into her flesh, searing her. But she could not cry out. If she did, Sherlock would cave to save her, and England would fall.
She focused on happy thoughts. Sherlock hugging her. How warm and safe she felt with him.
The beating went on, and she realised that he was hitting her more than he'd hit Sherlock.
She looked at her father. His eyes were closed, and his fists clenched. Veins in his face stood out, blue testimonies to his agony.
"Don't tell, Sherlock," she gasped out.
Finally Moriarty stopped,enraged.
Lissie lay in a little heap and cried. Everywhere hurt. She was slipping in and out of consciousness, and she felt Sherlock tuck his coat around her before he was pulled away...
It had been at least two days since she had seen Sherlock, she was sure of it. Her back had not healed, rather, it seemed to be getting worse. Was it infected?
Once, when she'd screamed for Sherlock, Mutt had snapped her arm, and she thought it might be broken from the odd angle it hung at. If she moved it at all, it felt like a fire was starting in it.
She had been brought dry toast and water once. She ate and drank hungrily.
She barely moved from her corner, wrapped in Sherlock' s coat. It smelled like him, and she felt warmed by it.
She tried to say a prayer for Sherlock but the words didn't come. What were they doing to him?