All right, it gets a bit nasty now. Remember the warning that „later" chapters will containt torture? That's starting now. (Hope you enjoy it anyway. Evil me!)
The first thing John felt when he woke up was that he was lying on his back on something that could have been a table. He was restrained, but not tied too hard. Carefully he tried not to show that he was awake, listening first to collect as much information as possible.
The way his head was still swimming told him that he had been taken out chemically, not by physical force. Great. He heard one set of footsteps near his head. Probably Moran, or one of his minions, given he had any.
The footsteps came to a halt. No other sound could be heard. His captor must be watching him. Must be Moran then. John waited. So did Moran. "I know you're awake, John!" a soft voice whispered into his ear, and John could barely stop himself from shivering. All of a sudden his arms were pulled back with force. Moran was tying him up. He could have done it while John was unconscious, but he had waited until John had come around again to feel it. So this was going to be a power game.
People usually underestimated John H. Watson. Sherlock barely ever did, of course, which had pleased John immensely right from the beginning. But in general, he didn't mind being underestimated, especially when it resulted in advantages on his side.
His class mate Frank Stratton, for example, had made that mistake when they were both 16. Aiming at impressing Melissa Gravis so she would go to the Winter Dance with him, he had spotted small John as a good victim for some intense beating up. It had earned Frank a broken nose and several deep cuts and it had earned John a date for the Winter Dance with Melissa Gravis.
Or when his unit had gotten captured near Kunduz. None of their captors had identified him as the most dangerous member of the team. With a special training in dealing with hostage situations. That ended in a disaster for the captors and with a Conspicuous Gallantry Cross for John. A fact Sebastian Moran was ignorant of. At least, he seemed to be the next one to make that mistake.
He must have done some research on him, John mused, thinking about his choice of victims, and yet he underestimated the fact that John had been a soldier. Only that could explain why Moran had neither blindfolded nor gagged John when he had tied him up. It was this realisation that made John hope to come out of this alive.
If Moran wanted to feel power over John, it would be a good idea to give him exactly what he wanted, at least for now. It would also be a good idea to speak as little as possible, at least for the time being. No reason to bring Moran's attention to his own mistakes. When John heard him approaching the other end of the table to tie John's legs up harder, he obediently struggled against it, groaning a little. Not too hard, only so much to show Moran his fear. Then he opened his eyes to look at his opponent for the first time.
His eyes didn't rest for long on the aristocratic, good looking face, framed by blonde hair, or his well-tailored clothes. John couldn't help but think that he and Sherlock must have made a breathtaking pair of mates back in their youth. What his eyes finally rested on was the smug look of superiority that was displayed on Moran's face, on his entire bearing. That was good. It was John's intended goal to keep this expression in place as long as possible.
Surely Sherlock must be searching for him already, and it would only be a matter of time until John would be rescued. All he had to do now was playing for time. And the longer Moran thought he was in control, the better. He averted his glance, looking at the white plastered wall instead, allowing some of the fear he felt to show on his face. Moran instinctively responded by smiling with satisfaction.
"Yes, John, you should be scared. Sherlock's not going to find you, you know?" Moran teased him. "I know how his mind works, and believe me, I'm exactly where he will be searching last. When it will be to late to save you!" Again, John allowed some of his fear to surface. This could turn out to be a bit tricky, keeping unwanted emotions at bay while displaying them to Moran at the same time. He swallowed unwillingly.
The smug smile on Moran's face widened. "Yes, you will die here!" he said with delight, entirely misreading the reason for John's swallowing. Then his eyes narrowed. "Well, maybe I should deliver you from your pain right now. It won't matter how long you have been dead when Sherlock finally finds you, will it?" He's bluffing. God, let him be bluffing. The look in Moran's eyes grew cold, determined, and his hands closed on John's throat. Please, let him be bluffing.
With a cold smile still on his lips, Moran started to strangle him forcefully. "No!" John choked out, not needing to pretend to sound panicked. He involuntarily tried to move away from his grip, but he was tied up so tightly he could barely moved at all. Moran wouldn't have taken the time to tie him up had he really wanted to kill him immediately afterwards. John adhered to that thought with all his strength while his body was starting to twitch uncontrollably. He couldn't breathe, couldn't stop his body from trying to get air, his torso rocking violently within its restrains. His ears were ringing, and bright spots were dancing in front of his eyes while the room was growing darker.
Their eyes locked, and Moran's face was nothing but determined. John felt his lungs burning. God, please let him be bluffing. For a second, Moran loosened his grip, and John choked in as much air as possible before the hands closed around his throat once more. So he was still playing with him. He would not die now. He felt his hands clenching helplessly, his vision dimming rapidly. He would wake up again. He wouldn't die now. The last thing John heard when his body started to go limp was Moran chuckling.
The taverna was as plain as Sherlock remembered it from his childhood.
(same tiles, tables in similar style, rural but welcoming, walls still beige, but apparently refreshed, table cloth red and white instead of green and white)
A young waiter watched him coming in. "Signore Holmes, questa tavola, per favore!"
(between eighteen and twenty-one years old, studying, grew up here, owner's son)
He was led to a table set for two and placed on the chair facing the wall.
(putting me in the more insecure position, a predictable power play, so are the two gunmen sitting on the tables to the right and to the left, guns hidden underneath shirts, one of them always able to aim at me)
Above the empty chair in front of him there was a black-and-white photograph.
(old view of the main square, looked like that when we spent the holidays here, another predictable move).
When Sebastian approached him from behind
(reflection on the picture frame)
he didn't turn around to greet him: "Sebastian, how nice that you could find some time for me. I thought you were thoroughly busy tormenting Dr. Watson!"
(guard up, he could never stand my sarcasm, always hurt by it, can't risk more with two guns pointed at me and John in his power)
They were sitting opposite each other in silence for a moment,
(time to watch him more closely: attitude a lot more self-confident than in his youth, face and hands very soigné, expensive clothes that look deceptively plain, eyes hard, has lost weight fast lately, dark rings under his eyes nearly covered by make-up, mourning?)
before Sebastian leaned closer. "You have changed!" he stated.
(always had a talent for stating the obvious, boring)
"Boring!" Sherlock countered.
(don't show him how unpleasant his scrutinising glance feels, why is that so? Need to ask John, need to save John!)
Then, with an unexpected move, Sebastian reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock's.
(unpleasant, overstepping his boundaries on purpose, but don't flinch, don't show rejection, don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction)
"Well, only so much, then," Sebastian went on, "you still don't like being touched, do you?"
(hurt in his voice? hand still placed firmly, don't flinch)
"Not by me, that is. On all those tapes it always looked as if you didn't mind being touched by your good doctor..."
(knew Seb was observing us one way or another, probably the camera in the kitchen I couldn't match to someone yet)
"Or touching him, for that matter. The way you pulled that Semtex off of him..."
(but how did he...)
And then, finally, Sherlock understood
(been such an IDIOT, how else could he have known I'm still alive? Needed to have access to immense resources, only probable source for that was...).
He looked at Sebastian coldly now, and said, imitating him: "Dear Jim, I'm looking for a way to hurt an old friend of mine. I think you know him already..."
(odd expression on Seb's face, not only smugness, but pain as well)
"And Jim was extremely willing to let me help! Said he needed me. Made me his second."
(eyes out of focus for a second, pulse increasing, this is not just about power, but about affection and grief)
"He never minded me doing this..." Sebastian reached out for Sherlock now, cupping his face
(unpleasant, can't help but stiffen, Seb noticed, causes him pleasure, don't pull back),
brushing his cheek with his thumb
(unpleasant!, try to block it out, underestimated the affection involved, John was right, need to reassess, unrequited love is more dangerous than disappointed friend).
"But one day, he didn't return to me." Sebastian went on, his hand on Sherlock's hand again, his fingernails drilling into Sherlock's skin
(don't pull back, painful, but preferable to touching face, seven possible remarks in my mind, all of them endangering John further, don't flinch).
"Said he would finish his business with you once and for all."
(expression clearly painful now, fingernails still hurting, don't flinch)
"I thought it was some kind of poetic justice that you both had died that day."
(don't grin, don't tell him that Moriarty wouldn't have killed himself had he really felt attached to Sebastian)
"Imagine my surprise when I found out who was still alive, disabling the other members of our spider web!"
(fingernails scratching deep into back of hand, don't flinch)
He watched Sherlock even more closely now.
(doesn't know yet if he likes what he sees in my face, tries to figure out feelings for me, must notice the tension in my jaw, but also the revulsion?, time to get more active)
"What do you want from me, Sebastian?"
(trying not to sound too disgusted, keep voice neutral)
"What I want?" Sebastian chuckled, an insincere, cold sound. "I want you to stay right here for the next hour."
(his hand on my cheek again, revolting, don't flinch)
"Then I want you to start looking for your precious doctor."
(thumb on my lips, revolting, don't flinch)
"Search for him frantically while I'm enjoying my time with him, breaking him in every possible way."
(leaning closer now, his hand ruffling my hair, unpleasant, don't flinch, fight down fear, won't allow him to do that to John)
"And then I want you to find him, mere minutes after I took his life." With that, Sebastian got up, pulling a little at his hair
(unpleasant, stop it, that won't happen)
"I want you to deduce every little thing I did to him from his corpse!" He leaned down and pressed his cheek against Sherlock's
(his breath against my face again, revolting, don't flinch, won't find him too late),
his hand on Sherlock's neck
(unpleasant, stop, won't be too late)
"I thought about killing you then, but maybe that will no longer be necessary!"
(won't happen won't happen won't happen)
He placed a kiss on Sherlock's cheek, enjoyed the revulsion his action caused, and left.
Thanks to everyone reading and following so far, I really appreciate it.
My eternal thanks of course to my wonderful beta-readers GoSherlocked and Bev. I felt very insecure about the whole torturing thing. Your honest feedback is endlessly important to me!