Chapter 21: Captivity and the Hunt Begins

Warnings: Torture in this chapter. I don't think it's too heavy or graphic, but thought I should warn you all the same.

Also, I got impatient and posted without any betaing, so… let's hope I'm up to par! This chapter wanted to be at least 15K words, which I haven't written yet, so I'm splitting it up for you. That means I've bumped up the final chapter count. But that's not bad, right? More story?

John jerks awake, body flaring with panic, when he hears rustling outside the little cupboard in which he has been immured. He is slumped in the corner behind the door, abused head cradled in the right angle of the walls. His eyes snap open and for a moment everything is glowing and overexposed in the jarring light of the overhead fluorescent. Its raucous drone transitions from background noise to the forefront, and through it John hears the lock click open. He quickly straightens out his back and pulls his knees close to his chest, pressing his bound hands into his stomach.

The door opens rapidly and John kicks out with both legs, giving it as much leverage as he can, as soon as it opens. There's a loud thud, then the door snaps back, hitting John's feet again. He scuttles to the side, hoping to see that he's managed to inflict some damage.

It is Lew, and he has a hand wrapped around his shoulder, glaring as hard as he can at John. Tank sniggers out in the hall. John hasn't meted out more than a bruise. But because he's feeling ornery, he rolls a little on his spine and kicks out again. Lew is an idiot, hasn't thought to move back out of reach, and howls when John's shoes smack into his kneecaps. He goes down.

Tank leans placidly against the door jamb, gun pointed at John, and says, ignoring his whimpering, cursing partner, "Are you done, yet?"

John assess the situation and then reluctantly nods. "For the moment, yeah," he agrees.

Tank leans forward and grabs Lew by his belt, yanking him backwards and into the hall, showing no emotion. "I'm gonna free your legs," he says. "I want you to lie down on your stomach. You try anything, I shoot you someplace where you won't bleed out too fast. Understand me?"

John nods, and falls over to the side. He rolls stiffly onto his stomach, awkwardly cambered over his arms. His swollen wrists shriek sharp pain at him, and he has to keep his feet up, bent at the knee, because there's not enough room in the closet. The cool concrete floor feels good on his flushed face. His ankles are grabbed briefly, and when they're released, they fall apart at last. He rolls over and humps his way back to sitting.

Tank fills the doorway, jerks the gun at John. "Stand up, slow, and come with me. Boss wants to see you."

John pushes against the wall as he struggles to stand. Vertigo strikes him in nauseating waves, and the light above seems to flicker randomly. His head hurts like a bitch, but he thinks the bleeding has stopped. (At any rate, he doesn't feel goo down his neck.) "Gotta piss," he mutters. And he does. It's not urgent yet, but anything to have the tie cut off his hands.

Tank continues to stare at him expressionlessly. "Not now, you don't," he contradicts. "Boss first." He takes three steps back, casually stepping over Lew, who is gasping, curled around what John sincerely hopes are dislocated patellae.

John staggers out, slowly, stiffly putting one foot in front of the other. His face is furrowed in concentration, Walk, don't fall; Walk, don't fall. He goes down the hall to the left, following the implicit commands of the competently brandished gun. Tank stays out of reach behind him. And John certainly isn't going to be running anywhere: he can barely walk. Down the hall, up a narrow flight of stairs, old and stone. He fumbles the doorknob at the top. It is hard to make his numbed fingers answer his brain, and he must use both hands to turn the knob enough to release the catch.

Down another hall, through a vast, surprisingly modern kitchen, then they wend their way through several other rooms (John doesn't know what rich folks would call them: who needs more than one parlour?) and finally into a large, dark-panelled office. A tall executive chair is behind a massive desk directly opposite the door. All John can see is the back of it.

He snorts, softly. Really? It reeks of sophomoric drama.

The chair slowly spins around. A lean man occupies it, pale skin accentuated by black hair and eyebrows. Black eyes stare at him hungrily. "So, this is John Watson." the man says. He gestures theatrically at a chair next to John. "Please have a seat."

John doesn't reply, just raises his eyebrows. "Ah. A social visit, then?" he asks pleasantly. He holds up his purpling hands. "Care to take this off, if that's the case?"

"Oh, certainly. Let it not be said that I am not a good host." The man waves lazily at Tank. "Sebastian. If you will."

The unmistakable pressure of the muzzle of a gun appears on the back of his neck, steady and hard. "Lift your arms up."

John complies, holding them just above his shoulder, and there's the schkk of a switchblade next to his ear. The tie is cut in one painful jerk, and John pulls his hands back bloody. Fucking butcher, he thinks to himself, as he flexes his fingers and rotates his wrists. There's a long cut on his right wrist. Although he doesn't believe that Tank… Sebastian… did it maliciously. For one thing, he doesn't seem to have emotions. For another, John knew his flesh was so swollen that it would have been hard at that point to access the nylon tape. He presses the laceration against his coat, notes that Tank… Sebastian… has stepped back towards the door. He trusts in the man's aim and doesn't attempt to bolt.

"I am James Moriarty," the man on the other side of the desk says, standing up. He leans forward, planting both hands on the surface, and glares at John. "And it seems you have something that belongs to me."

John grinds his teeth, and his headache spikes with the movement. "Nope," he retorts. "I most certainly do not. Actually, I believe… that you've stolen something from me."

Moriarty's glare vanishes, and his face smooths out, eyes crinkling happily at the corners. "What? Have I? To what could you possibly be referring? Could it be…" and he steps around the desk, saunters over to nearby built in bookshelves. There, displayed alone on a shelf at waist-level, is the lamp. Moriarty picks it up and croons at it wordlessly, spiderlike fingers caressing the stem, the bowl. He flicks the cap off by snapping at the horned moon on top, and then strolls back over to John, lamp dangling from a single finger through its handle. "This? Is it this, Dr. Watson? Because if so, I beg to differ-"

John explodes out of his chair, shoulder launching into the unprotected belly of the smug bastard, snatching at the lamp to use as a weapon. He twists it easily out of the man's surprised grasp and immediately strikes out at him, expecting a bullet in his back at any moment. He tries to aim his attack so that they fall slightly around the corner of the desk, offering minimal protection from the gun in the doorway.

He gets in one good knock at Moriarty's face with the iron lamp before he's hauled back by his coat and the gun is jammed into his neck so hard he's afraid it might kill him by simply spitting him on the muzzle. He flails behind his head with the lamp, aiming for Sebastian's head, but his arm is grabbed and brutally twisted. "Drop it," Sebastian says, toneless. And John does, dammit, he has to.

Moriarty is hissing on the carpet, pale hand to an even paler face. Sebastian kicks John behind the knees, forcing him to drop down, and has his head by the hair with the hand not holding the gun. "You ok, boss?" he asks tersely.

Moriarty staggers to his feet. There's a purple swelling already blooming across one cheek, the skin split open there, red trailing down; and John feels viciously pleased. Moriarty lunges forward and kicks him in the stomach as hard as he can. There is something vaguely foolish about such a slim, delicate man, dressed in an absurdly expensive suit, clearly fastidious, trying to be a brutish bully. But there is nothing funny about the burning pain in his gut. Moriarty kicks him again, directly over a rib this time (which may well have cracked it, but that is preferable to the organ damage that could have resulted from an identically placed blow in his unprotected belly.)

Moriarty looks around the office and then points to a wooden chair. "Tie him up," he snarls. "I'm going to get started."

John's blood runs cold, literally, and he can feel the sudden whitening of his face, skin prickling with it as if he were still outside in the driving snow. There was a good chance this would happen in retaliation, and he knew it; he took his chances based on the fact that Moriarty would want to hurt or kill him regardless of whether or not he made an attempt at freedom. That, and it is hard not to make every effort to fight, to get away. Passivity doesn't suit John at all.

Sebastian pulls the gun away momentarily, before returning it in a professionally savage clout to his temple, where he'd been hit before. John goes down like a stone.

He does not believe he was out for long, and when he slowly wakes back up, he is unsurprised to find himself trussed in a chair, to the right of the desk, near the window. Where had they been hiding the damn rope? Fresh blood flows from the aggravated wound on his temple, and he blinks to keep it out of his eyes.

He's shivering, and realizes, with foreboding, that his coat and shirt have been removed. This can't be good.

Moriarty leans on the desk mere feet in front of him and grins, an expression more frightening because of the complete malevolence in his eyes. His tongue darts out, almost as if he's tasting the air, and John is uncomfortably reminded of a snake.

But he won't show fear. "Can't blame me for trying," he says, making a rueful face. "So clearly we disagree on who has a right to the lamp. Where do we go from here?"

Moriarty's tongue flickers out again, and his round black eyes slowly blink. He holds out his hand, and Sebastian lays the opened switchblade on his palm.

Fuck.

Oh, fuck. Fucking hell.

This is going to… suck so very much. John takes a deep breath, wincing against the protest from his rib.

"You're bad, Johnny-boy," the insane man sings. "You're wrong, the lamp is mine. Sherlock is mine. You were wrong to contradict me, and you were wrong to attack me." He moves closer, bending down until his breath, disconcertingly redolent of bubblegum, washes across John's face. "I'm going to be sure everyone knows how wrong you are." He flickers out with the open knife, starting at John's shoulder. Skin pars roughly on either side of the blade, which blunders through the bulk of his scar and rips quickly down, across his chest to the ribs on his other side, just above where the rope is bound around his middle.

John makes a loud, gurgling noise. He had planned to remain quiet, but Moriarty struck so quickly, and with so little warning, that he hasn't had time to prepare. Bright pain blooms in the wake of the blade, and he can't take his eyes off it, assessing the cut with his doctor's knowledge. Deep enough to bleed freely, but could be worse. Will definitely need stitches here and there. Should be more painful, but adrenaline is flooding his system so intensely in response to that knife that John is not even sure he would feel it now if Moriarty suddenly decided to cut off a finger. Oddly, his teeth begin to chatter, and the anticipation is making it worse.

Moriarty sighs a giggle and slashes at his other side, to make an X. "You were wrong, John, and now I've marked you for it. Look at that. Everyone will know." He stands back, face repulsively sated. He leans forward and swipes a finger in a wiggling wave through the two cuts, smearing the blood around. He presses hard, pulling at each edge of rent flesh as he encounters it. Then he steps back and slowly, staring at John's widened eyes, puts that finger in his mouth. When he pulls it away, there's still an obscene red streak on his bottom lip. "Oh, Johnny-Boy," he breathes, illuminated. "We are going to have such fun."

Sherlock flings the handful of CCTV printouts to the floor near the fire. They'd been delivered by a nondescript man in sober, dark clothes, face competently impassive. He'd commented that Mr. Holmes himself would be stopping by in the next hour, turned precipitously and eased back into the rear seat of the sedan parked illegally in front of the flat. They'd rolled silently off into the dark.

Mrs. Hudson stopped by with tea and dinner, and he'd flung it into the sink. She'd huffed over that, but Sherlock thought he'd been controlling himself very well by throwing it into the sink instead of all over the wall like he really wanted to.

Examination of the CCTV stills proved that the mysterious visitor to the flat was indeed difficult to make out. Sherlock could superimpose Moriarty over that silhouette bundled in coat and cap, caught blurry and from an awkward angle. The height was right, and the serpentine curve of his body as he mounted the stairs. But he could just as well have been Wiggins, or any one of several members in the bullpen at the Met, or, well... there was frustratingly insufficient data with which to narrow down his identity.

The men in the front seats of the white delivery van were too hard to make out, although the driver was clearly unusually tall. The van itself Sherlock was fairly certain was the one from the club parking lot, which didn't surprise him. He flipped through each still, showing the route of the van. From Melcombe St. to Gloucester Pl. to Marylebone Rd... Sherlock followed in a mental cab, street after street until they'd evidently lost the van as CCTV cameras became more scarce. Heading west. Hmmm.

Sherlock flips open the laptop again. Moriarty's old estate is in that direction, an hour outside the city. It is currently owned by Lord Stewart Crowley, an ancient, sickly gentleman whom Mycroft had said he knew personally from frequent encounters in Parliament. No relation at all to Moriarty, and they had dismissed him from their investigation. He wonders how near death the old man may be; how susceptible to persuasion, to the tantalizing idea of an extended life.

Sherlock can't stand the thought of sitting, his body is vibrating in tune with his mind, his skin is crawling with the need for action, his heart stutters and races at the thought of John under Moriarty's hands. He wants to scream, and run, and fight… he is filled with a barbaric, murderous intent, his stomach clenched, his blood thrumming, electricity surrounding him in a crackling nimbus.

He leaps to his feet, casting the laptop to the side, and begins to wrap himself up for the outdoors: coat and scarf and gloves. He darts into the bedroom to retrieve both cash and the gun from where John has stashed it. He quickly figures out how to chamber the bullets from the box of ammunition and make it ready. He drops the piece in his pocket and leaps down the stairs 3 at a time.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson slips through her door and meets him in the small foyer. "Are you leaving? Have you heard from John?"

"Yes, I am leaving. No, I haven't heard from John." He rushes up to her and clasps her between both long hands, easily enveloping the fragile balls of her shoulders. "I have an idea, Mrs. Hudson, and I will see if it comes to fruition. If my… Mycroft should come by, then tell him to contact me on the phone." He stares at her intently for a moment, sharp blue eyes probing glaucous brown, then leans in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

When he pulls back, her face is soft with sympathy and surprise. She gives him a little push on one shoulder. "Get on with you, then," she says smiling. "Go find our John and bring him home safe."

Sherlock wheels around with suitable dramatic flair and leaps over the steps to the pavement, waving over a cab at the same time. He enunciates the address quite clearly and shoves a hundred quid up front to stall the man's protests. As the car pulls out, Sherlock gazes blindly through the reflections on the window, street lights passing by like shooting stars and shops like supernovae, drumming anxious fingers on a well-tailored knee.

Long before they have left the city limits he hears a series of chimes from his phone and quickly pulls it out. The screen advises him that he has received a message from John, and he spends a moment figuring out how to access it.

What a stubborn little pet you picked. But don't worry. I'm sure you'll be here soon.

There are two small, pale squares below the text, and Sherlock presses lightly on the first with his forefinger. An image springs open, and he bites his lip so hard and suddenly that it splits under his teeth, adding the disorienting iron taste of blood to the picture in his hand.

It is John, seated in a chair in a rich looking room, the warm glow of a fireplace behind him to the right. His eyes are half open, but dazed and unfocused. Blood matts his hair and covers one side of his face, the white of his eye is startling and gruesome in its frame of vivid red. He is bare-chested, and there are distinct, deep lines crossing over in the center, like a foreshortened X, from shoulder to opposite rib. Rows of dark rope below the cuts show that there's been enough blood, enough time, to have soaked through the fibers.

Shakily, Sherlock opens the second image. In this one, John has been cut free. He lies on the floor like a broken marionette and a large boot rests on the side of his head, holding it mashed into the rug. One arm is still twisted behind his body, but the other drapes over the floor, and his hand rests on top of a very familiar lamp.

The phone chimes again, and the new message reads, What do you think he'll wish for, Sherlock?

Sherlock takes a shuddering breath, and the air feels heavy and humid on his tongue, sticking cloyingly to the insides of his lungs, making him slow and vulnerable. It has begun. He knew it. Knew this was the inevitable conclusion, and feels utterly sick that John has to be a part of it. His mind wanders over the days he has known the man: damaged, courageous, warm... such a fascinating juxtaposition of nurturing and violence.

Sherlock ponders the ways they both have changed because of each other's company. Sherlock has opened up, found some hope and optimism, discovered things about himself that he had either never known or had thought lost forever, beaten down, ruthlessly excised. Through John, he has discovered a world he never knew existed, one filled with exciting puzzles and warm, lovely esteem. He has found a singular joy in his body that he had previously never experienced. He has even found joy in the body and intimacy of another.

And John. John has gone from wishing to die, from feeling useless and hopeless and broken, to being able to walk, run, fight; to having a companion and a purpose. John needs to take care of someone, it helps him to function smoothly. He's made to protect, to admire, to chivvy, to adore, to love. They fit. Their tattered edges sift together and in the mix become whole, transcendent.

It was too good to be true. Of course it was. When has anything in Sherlock's hundreds of years gone right? The thought of Moriarty living through those centuries, slithering his manipulative, sadistic way through decade after decade is so loathsome as to nearly enervate Sherlock. That snake has finally come back to him, with an obsession which is not only undiminished, but seemingly has been cultivated and amplified over the years.

Sherlock drops fragile lids over dry, burning eyes and knits himself back together, invests himself in his facade so that these useless, incapacitating emotions cannot hinder him. He has John's gun, and he has his own brain. This is all. The gun he cannot use until he is facing Moriarty, so he must use his intellect at this time. One breath. Another. He flattens his free hand over his thigh and imposes relaxation on his body. Breathe. Breathe. Be the machine. Be cold, and sharp, and calculating. Be a tool, a weapon. Let vengeance be all he can feel.

Breathe.

Sherlock can close his eyes and see that fireplace behind John. See it as it was over two hundred years earlier. The heavy stone and elaborate carvings are unchanged, although the items on the mantel are new, and he knows he is heading to the right place.

The cab crawls deeper into the night, pointed west, eventually leaving behind the lights of London.

Still smacking his lips, as if John's blood is a fine wine, Moriarty steps back and smiles broadly. He pulls his phone out of a pocket and faces it towards John. "Smile for the camera, little pet," he coos. John stares at it for a minute, then the flash flares and John blinks slowly to floating purple spots and swirls.

He says, because he can't think of any other way of taunting his crazed captor, "If you're planning to send that to Sherlock, you're out of luck. He doesn't know how to use his phone yet."

Moriarty rolls his eyes and props himself on one hip like an adolescent with attitude. "Honey, I have faith in that man's brains, if nothing else." He looks around. "Now, let me see…" he stoops to pick up the lamp from the floor and grins again at John. His face is eerily painted by the thin line of blood arrowing off his cheek. He hasn't even swiped at it, and John wonders if it has even registered with him that he has been hit. "Sebastian, I want him lying on the floor, if you don't mind."

There's a grunt behind him, and the now-familiar schkk of the switchblade, and the ropes around John begin to pull and tug. As soon as they have fallen away, John leans forward, and is smacked in the temple again for his trouble. He simply falls the rest of the way, and scarcely hears Moriarty's exhortation to keep him down. Suddenly there's a giant boot on his head, pressing it to the floor, and agony floods him so quickly he's certain he will vomit. He gags on bile for a blind minute, rapidly swallowing to keep it down.

Moriarty's dainty feet shuffle into view, and he squats down so that John can roll his eyes up enough to see his face. He's smiling. "Well," he says brightly. "That went well, didn't it. Just one last thing-"

John stares through slitted eyes while Moriarty grabs his hand and puts it over a familiar shape. "Here's your lamp, little pet. Are you going to make a wish?" John opens his eyes wider to see, and there's another flare of light as the camera's flash goes off again. "Ta for now, my dear. I've got some things to get ready." Moriarty wanders out of the office, whistling an overloud and jaunty disco tune, and Tank's boot is solid and uncompromising on John's head, pressing cruelly against his wound. He lets his eyes fall closed.

He feels distantly concerned that if they don't stop hitting him in the head he might suffer irreversible concussive trauma. There must be a fluorescent light in the hallway; it sings a discordant, buzzing cacophony, interpreted through his jittery skin, and he lets it morph into a lullaby, red with agony, and for a while he sleeps.

He doesn't know how long it is before he wakes up again. Moriarty has bounced back into the room, looking gleeful and excited. Sebastian stands at the corner of the desk, alert and watchful, gun held steadily in his hand, pointed skillfully at John. He looks away from it, and starts to push himself up, stopping at the pain before he can even prop himself up on one elbow.

"Well, Sebby… go help him! I need him in the bedroom, now!"

Wait.

What? Sweet Jesus, is this where the torture is headed now? Although taking it to an actual bed seems strange. If Moriarty's planning on raping him, it will be about power, not about lust. A bed seems discongruent. Oh, god. Oh, god.

Sebastian hauls him up by his belt, which is degrading, but ultimately successful. He's propelled into the hall behind Moriarty, who is so excited he is practically skipping. John finds he's having trouble keeping himself balanced over one foot long enough to take an unsupported step. Each jolting footfall shakes his pectorals, and a clear, burning hurt reverberates through his chest. He can feel the sluggish warmth trickling in little rivulets down his stomach. The cracked rib that Moriarty kicked acts like an overtightened corset, aborting each breath as he takes it via the effective technique of flaring pain.

Up an endless flight of stairs.

Down a long gallery, hung with family portraits and no doubt expensive but quite pedestrian art. John shuffles along, panting, Sebastian's hand gripping his bicep to keep him upright and hurrying along.

Moriarty turns around and walks backwards, clapping his hands once in excitement. "I found a lovely girl," he begins, checking over his shoulder to direct himself into a narrower hall. "I think you'll quite like her." He turns back around in time to find the doorway he sought. He unlocks it with a key taken from his pocket and traipses through. "Come on, I want you to see!"

Adrenaline spikes again, and John can suddenly stand under his own power. A girl? What the hell? What does Moriarty intend to do with a girl? His looks quickly around the room as they breach the threshold, and his gaze locks on her. She really is a girl. A teenager, and scared out of her mind. She has long dark hair, and giant black eyes in a cat-like, triangular face. She's huddled behind a chair in the far corner of the room, and her tea-colored skin pales several shades as John watches. He is sure that he can't be a sight to inspire confidence in anyone, much less an inexperienced kid.

Moriarty turns to John. "I found her at Camden," he confides, "in a booth. She does such lovely designs, you just wouldn't believe." He glides over to the terrified girl and clasps his hands behind his back. "Now," he says, and his voice has gone cold again. "I expect you to get him ready for me, just like I told you." She begins to cry, and he casually backhands her, so that her head swings into the wall behind her. "Stop it," he hisses. "Or I'll kill you either way, do you understand?"

She gabbles something, and he drags her forward, pushing her towards John. "Do it," he commands. He then grabs John by the chin, smirking into his eyes. "And you, little pet. You let her do what she needs to, or I'll cut of her toes one by one while you watch. I'd do her fingers," he says in an offhand, breezy tone of voice, "but she'll need those for later.

"You. Try. Anything. and I switch my attentions to her." His tone is abruptly flat and utterly empty and John feels the truth of his words with a chilling certainty.

John stands straighter and pulls his shoulders back, ignoring the stab of pain from flesh and bone. "I understand. You sadistic bastard."

Moriarty's fist flies out again, and the girl shrieks as she's knocked to the ground. "See? You behave badly, and she gets the punishment. Clear enough?"

John sucks in an appalled breath. "Crystal, sir," and he gives a sharp nod. Moriarty gives him an indescribable, wide-eyed look, and then beckons Sebastian to follow him out of the room. "Stay by the door, Sebby," his voice floats back as the door closes and locks behind them.

John and the girl are left alone in the bedroom. John lowers himself stiffly to his knees, energy seeping back now that there's someone who desperately needs his help. He makes an abortive move to touch her cheek, resting his hands open-palmed on his knees instead, trying to be as unthreatening as possible. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "So sorry."

She gasps and sniffles and scrabbles backwards until she's crouched against the side of the bed.

"Listen," he says. "I'm not going to hurt you, alright? It must be pretty obvious that I'm in the same boat as you. So. Let's. Um."

She wipes her eyes with a shaking hand and nods her head a little. Her bones are as delicate as a bird's, and he cringes to think how easily she could break.

"Good. Ok. I'm John. I'm a doctor, actually. Maybe that's comforting? 'Do no harm'?" She continues staring at him. "Right. What's your name?"

"Aditi Singh," she says finally.

"Aditi. Nice to meet you." He looks down at his hands, filthy with his own blood, and doesn't offer to shake. "Have you been here long?"

"For. Um. For a few hours?"

John nods, relieved she hasn't been in the hands of that monster for too long. "He kidnapped you from the Camden Markets?"

"I. I was painting mehndi. Henna."

John's stomach sank, and cold foreboding turned his body momentarily to stone. "That's why he wants you here?"

She gives a short nod. "I'm to clean you up, he said, and make sure you wear his costume, and then do my designs on you."

"Christ," John says with feeling. "Fucking hell."