Chapter Thirteen
Trying to calculate the passage of time was extremely difficult in the Dungeon, as John had started calling it. With no window and no set routine, it was almost impossible to tell how long he'd been trapped. John was sure of one thing, however: if he was stuck here much longer, he was bound to have a seizure sooner or later. His best guess was that he'd been in his cell for around 24-36 hours, based on John's feelings of hunger and desperate, by now, thirst. However, the boredom made John realise that time might not be passing as fast as he was hoping. As much as he loathed Moriarty, John found himself almost looking forward to the moment when he would hear the familiar footsteps and sing-song voice.
Almost. John regretted these thoughts as soon as he did hear someone approaching. Preparing himself, John tried to sit up straighter against the wall. He would have stood if he could, but John decided that lack of food and drink would make this option unwise.
Moriarty appeared, and stopped in front of John's cell, facing him head on. He had a smirk on his face, and quirked one eyebrow up ever so slightly, as if to give an impression of curiosity. It was almost like he was surprised to see John sitting there, although John knew that Moriarty would have known exactly where he was, and what he'd been up to since he'd been there. As ever, Moriarty was wearing an impeccable suit, silver-grey with thin, almost pin-stripe black lines running down it. His shoes were polished to perfection, and his dark blue tie was perfectly straight. Moriarty's hair was gelled and combed in its usual fashion, swept back and a little to the side. He looked more like an investment banker than a criminal mastermind.
"Hello, Doctor Watson."
The emphasis on his title unnerved John a little, and he fought not to show any of his discomfort.
"Hello, Mister Moriarty." John echoed mockingly.
Moriarty's smile grew wider. "How are you feeling, John?"
John noted the switch to his first name, but decided not to please Moriarty by responding as he had before; he realised it had been a mistake.
"I'm fine. How long have I been here?"
Moriarty nodded a little to himself. "Yes, I suppose you are fine, at the moment. It's such a shame you've misplaced your anti-convulsant medication; that was careless of you. I'm so sorry to hear about your 'accident' by the way."
Mock sympathy. John bristled. "How long have I been here?"
"Insistent, aren't you." He sighed, as if John was causing a great problem for him. "You've been here just over a full day and night now. So, how long before you have a seizure? What's your diagnosis, doctor?"
John thought hard, biting his lip sub-consciously. He thought Moriarty would know if he was lying, but didn't want an audience for a seizure either. In the end, he decided the safest thing was to be truthful; no point incurring wrath when you're soon going to need medical help from the same man. "Soon. Even with the meds, I still get seizures once or twice a week, so-"
"I know." Moriarty seemed impatient. John frowned.
"So, I'll probably have one within the next 24 hours, as I haven't had one for...six days, and now I don't have any meds." The last part of his sentence was rather bitter, but John decided not to care right now.
Moriarty smiled wide, showing his perfect, shark-like teeth. "I'll be watching you very closely, then." He turned abruptly to leave, and then John spoke again, causing him to halt in his tracks.
"Please, I need a jumper or a pillow – something soft to cushion my head, otherwise…" He tailed off as Moriarty turned back around, smiling devilishly.
"Oh, John, you don't need to worry about that. I'll personally ensure no harm comes to you. Don't you worry."
Whatever that really meant, John didn't like the sound of it. Lost in his thoughts, John didn't hear Moriarty's receding footsteps, or the happy chuckle that accompanied them as they echoed down the corridor.
Will was a little surprised when he heard not one, but two sets of footsteps coming towards his cell. As he'd guessed, one of the sets of footsteps belonged to Moriarty. The other set belonged to a man a couple of inches taller than Moriarty, who was lean but muscled, with straw coloured hair. A scar ran across his left temple. Slowly, Will got to his feet. His head swam a little due to lack of food and water, and he gently rested a hand against the stone wall to steady himself. The movement wasn't lost on Moriarty and his companion.
Moriarty scanned Will, and then stepped forward to speak. "Hello. I don't think we've met, have we, Will?"
Cautiously, Will shook his head. Training was kicking in: bond with your captor, gain his trust, and then surprise him. Somehow, he thought it wouldn't be so easy with Moriarty.
"This is Sebastian Moran, my comrade. He's going to blindfold you and handcuff you, and then we're moving you a short distance. If you try anything, you'll be immobilised immediately." A pause, then: "Seb's a military man; he'll know all your tricks."
Will nodded again and swallowed, trying to decide on a plan of action. Would it be worth attempting an escape? He might not have a chance to leave his cell again for a long time, if ever. Wasting the opportunity would be foolish. But he would be at a huge disadvantage, with no sight or freedom of movement to help him. It was a hard choice.
Moriarty smirked and stepped back, signalling for Moran to proceed. He stepped forward and unlocked Will's cell. Will remained standing, stock still.
"Hands behind you." A well-educated accent, upper class. Interesting. Sherlock, of course, could do more with that information than Will. Hopefully he'd get a chance to soon.
Will obeyed the command, and his hands were tightly cuffed in the metal chains – getting out of them, even if he could dislocate his thumb without being noticed, would be tricky, even for the best.
When the handcuffs were fastened, Moran pulled a blindfold from his pocket. He tied it just a little too tight around Will's head, so his eyes felt squeezed in their sockets. With a firm hand wrapped around his arm, Will was guided from his cell. His bare feet made a slapping sound on the hard floor, which felt cold on his exposed skin. Either side of him was the sound of footsteps, one set belonging to Moran, the other to Moriarty.
They walked for about 50 paces, and then turned abruptly left, and quickly right and right again. Will was still deciding whether or not to try an escape. He had no idea how long he had left, and even if he did break free, where would he go, and would there be others? Probably. The odds were firmly stacked against him.
And then he heard something.
Will heard, to his right, a gasp that was unmistakably John. Fixated and unable to think properly or quickly enough, Will stopped mid-pace. Moran tried to push him onwards, but he was rooted to the spot. Moriarty whispered something, and Will missed it, but as he wasn't forced onwards immediately, he didn't really mind.
Risking speech, he said, "John?"
"Will." There was relief in the tone, but also trepidation. A fear of the unknown shared by both.
"Move on." Moriarty said, and Moran pushed Will forward.
But desperation took over; Will had only one thought on his mind: protect John. He took a step forward, then pushed back, hard, putting Moran momentarily off-balance. This gave him the chance to rip his arm from the man's grasp, and he lunged to where he thought Moriarty must have been standing. Will heard a movement, and dodged suddenly, avoiding what would have been a painful blow to the diaphragm.
John, seeing what was happening, pushed himself along the floor, and grabbed Moriarty's ankle through the bars, tugging as hard as he could. Moriarty fell with a surprised exclamation, hitting his left elbow hard on the concrete. He turned towards John, livid, and hissed "You'll pay.", before wrenching himself away from John's weakened grasp.
Will ducked and dodged erratically, adrenaline heightening his hearing in an animal fight-or-flight burst. He was vaguely aware of the fact Moriarty was now on the ground, judging by the grunt and whoosh of air against his face. Will turned, hoping to get in a kick, but his head was smashed from the side. Stunned, Will toppled sideways; crashing into the bars of what he presumed was John's cell. Metal jabbed into his ribs and pelvis painfully, and Will gasped, desperately trying to predict and dodge another blow. He lunged left, but tripped over Moriarty's prone form.
"Will!" John yelled a warning, trying to help, but it filled Will's ears, so he lost track of Moran's position momentarily.
It was a moment too long. An arm came up and locked around Will's neck, blocking off his carotid artery. Will saw an opportunity, and thrust his head down, pulling his blindfold off his head with the friction against Moran's muscled shoulder. He kicked desperately and blinked into the light, trying to break free. Will managed to get a jab into Moran's unprotected stomach, and he elicited a grunt, but kept his hold.
Desperately, Will looked around. John was smashing against the bars of his cell, somehow on his feet, trying to reach the pair with outstretched arms, but he was simply too far away to do anything to help. Moriarty had picked himself up and dusted off his jacket nonchalantly. He, too, was out of John's reach. He knew better, now, than to risk getting too close.
Black dots now danced in Will's vision. He struggled still, but knew his efforts were futile. Wherever he was being taken, if he was going to make it there, he wouldn't be conscious to see the rest of the route. Desperately, he looked over at John. Their eyes locked, and Will was reminded of the moment he and Sherlock had shared when they'd both been drugged while trying to reach John. He felt the same sense of futility and hopelessness, and saw the same feelings of regret in the pair of blue eyes that met his green ones. He'd failed; he wasn't going to protect John now. He realised he might never see John again.
"Ah'm soh-rey" Will choked out, blinking hard in an attempt to clear his vision.
John shook his head, unable to respond. Weakly, Will kicked backwards, pummelling Moran's thighs – he chuckled at how pathetic the attempt was. A few seconds later, Will's vision faded to grey, and then he headed for the black of oblivion. Will was vaguely aware of his muscles becoming limp, and Moran lowered him to the floor. It was over.
But it wasn't; Moran had let go a second too soon. Will realised he was still conscious, now lying on the cold floor. He also realised that John was probably aware of the fact, being a highly-skilled medical man. Keeping his eyes closed and his breathing even, Will remained still. He could hear John's heavy breaths somewhere to his left.
"You'll regret this, John." Moriarty muttered, and Will suppressed the urge to leap up right then; timing was going to be paramount.
Slowly, keeping his left hand against his side, out of sight from Moriarty and Moran to his right, Will pointed to where Moriarty was, clenched his fingers into a fist, and then pointed to John's cell, indicating his plan.
"Yeah…I guess I will." John sounded dejected, but Will was sure he was agreeing to his plan. That was good; he'd need to react fast.
Moriarty stepped forward, leaning over Will. Perfect. "How long will he be out for?"
"Not long, I suspect." John answered casually; it was a command to Will, saying 'Now!'.
Will obeyed, snapping his eyes open and leaping up. He used a right hook to catch the side of Moriarty's face, and then pushed him forcefully into the bars, bone colliding with metal. In a split second, John's arms were out and wrapped around Moriarty, pinning him in place.
Will didn't have time to take a breath before Moran was onto him again. He took a sharp jab to the kidneys before spinning on his heel and ducking to avoid a second blow. Moran growled in frustration. Kicking up, fast and hard, Will caught Moran's stomach, forcing the air from him. In this second of weakness, Will aimed a blow at the temple, and it collided, with a force he knew would knock Moran out cold immediately.
Triumphant, Will turned to tackle Moriarty, but he was wearing a triumphant smile to match. Suddenly, Will became aware of footsteps behind him; he didn't have time to turn before a man leapt on him, pushing him to the floor. John screamed his name as he fell, and then released Moriarty, hoping to make Will's punishment less severe. He didn't hold out much hope for either of them, though.
Will was punched several times across the face, and tried to curl as a flurry of kicks hit his abdomen, knocking the air out of him. He gasped for breath and people grabbed wrists, ankles, shoulders, and anything else they could get hold of. Pinned to the ground, Will was helpless. His head was turned towards John, who was watching the proceedings in helpless horror. Moriarty looked between them, smirking, amused by the events, despite everything.
A plastic-rubbery mask was forced over Will's nose and mouth, and his stomach was punched repeatedly, forcing him to gasp in great lungfuls of whatever gas was being pumped into it. Instantly, he was overcome with a wave of dizziness and his vision clouded once again. It was mere seconds before Will's exhausted and battered body surrendered to unconsciousness, amid horrified gasps from John and quiet chuckles from Moriarty.
"You're next." Moriarty muttered to John, as Will's limp body was picked up roughly and carried away in the direction Moran had been leading him in the first place.
"Where are you taking him?" John demanded.
"To visit Sherlock. Don't worry, you'll be reunited with your merry gang soon enough, John."
John took deep breaths, trying to steady himself. His muscles ached with the strain of holding Moriarty still while Will had fought Moran. It had been an impressive display, and John had seen another side to Will, a clinical, trained, professional side which he admired.
"Oh, and John?" John looked up again at Moriarty. "You should try to avoid stress; you know what it does for your health."
John's stomach dropped, and then light burst in a vibrant display in front of his eyes, like fireworks.