Moriarty may have been distracted, but he had no reason to be worried about Sherlock running away. Because a few other people were watching too. As soon as he reached the door, ready to run for it, it opened and he was hit on his head. "You really thought you could escape?" His head was pounding. He felt that he's being hold by two men, each holding one hand and they both pushed him down on his knees. The whole room was blurred. Moriarty looked like a long black spot now, growing bigger as he got closer to him.
"Dear Sherlock. Dear, ordinary Sherlock." He was now shivering quite visibly. His eyes wet and his throat dry. His heart beating fast, ready to stop any moment now. "What would I do with you?" even without seeing him clearly Sherlock knew what expression Moriarty's face had now. "Well, I already know. Did you figure that out already?" of course he didn't. He was too busy being frightened "Kill me?" his voice was cracked and shivery as if he hasn't been using it for weeks. He saw Moriarty's smile even through the veil of both tears and sweat and even though his sight was still unclear. His cold, mad smile seep to his bones and made his whole body shiver.
"Nah." He said. His voice flat and calm. "I think that we've already been through that conversation. No! I'm going to do something even better. You're going to be impressed and to wish that you have committed suicide that day." His tone became angrier and his face were now so close to Sherlock's and he could feel his cold breath on his skin and his insane eyes scanning his face. "You are going to do something for me. Well few things actually." Sherlock knew what the rest of it is going to be and just hoped that Moriarty won't say it. "You already know what I'm going to say don't you?!" Sherlock remained motionless and silent. John's face appeared in his mind. He knew what was coming and so, against his will, a tear appeared on his cheek.
"I told you that you do have a heart. What a shame." He sighed. "We could have ruled the world together if you weren't so vulnerable. It seems as if I have to make you do those things for me and, actually, I've never expected you to volunteer."
Sherlock took a deep breath, prepared himself to the worst. "Even though you already know I'll tell you the deal. You help me and in exchange John stays alive." That was obvious but was also Sherlock's greatest fear since he knew that now no matter what Moriarty wants him to do he'll have to obey. "Fair play" he muttered to himself. "Isn't it?!" another rhetorical question, Moriarty absolutely loved those.
"Well, John is still alive so now it's your turn to do your part of the deal." One of the men covered his eyes with a piece of fabric and together they lifted him to his feet and pulled him aggressively out of the shack. He tried to break free from their hands but was too scared to actually concentrate and failed to do so. They pushed him into a car. Judging by its size it was some sort of a cab and judging by its smell it was new. They were really quiet. Sherlock thought that Moriarty must have told them to remain silent so Sherlock wouldn't find out about anything. The car kept on going and the silence was even scarier than anything Moriarty could say. The uncertainty and the helplessness of his condition disgusted him. How could he possibly let him-self get into it? But the answer was obvious of course. Sentiment. Care. He should have listened to Mycroft back there in St. Bart's, "Care isn't an advantage Sherlock" he said. He should have learned from Irene's mistakes and never let sentiment apply his logic. But it was too late now. John was in danger because of him and he was a better man than anyone Sherlock has ever known. He saw Sherlock for who he was inside and didn't push him away even if he was annoying or sarcastic and even if he accidently hurt him. John would never have done that and he was too kind for Sherlock to give up on him. To let Moriarty take his life. There was no way he was going to let that happen. No one will ever hurt John as long as it's up to him. But now it was too late for that. He should have thought of John before going on investigating. He should have known the consequences to his deeds.
The car stopped and brought him back to reality. As they got out of the car one of the men hit him hard on his neck. All the sounds were now vague and all he could think of was the pain. And like that, slowly the men led him through some sort of a hallway. The silence was replaced by the fuzzy sound of their steps and his loud heart beats.
He couldn't tell how long it has been before they stopped walking but it has been awhile.
The man to his left moved a bit forward, still holding his arm. As if from a great distance, he heard a weak sound of iron scratching asphalt and the next thing he knew the men threw him on the floor. Instinctively his hands flew before him and blocked the fall. The gate closed behind him in a faint clicking sound and as it did, Sherlock, his hands now free, ripped of the fabric from his eyes. He expected to be in some sort of a dungeon, surrounded by corpses. Moriarty was really dramatic so less than that would be disappointing. But what he saw was nothing like that. It was a small windowless room. The walls were painted with gray and the only entrance was the tiny iron gate. It was stuffy, he felt his lungs shrinking and the dusty air slowly scratching his throat, trying to find its way in. It was dark and cold. The only source of light was a single old lamp hanging down from the ceiling. He set on the floor, at the middle of the room, hid his face in his bent knees and thought of John. How could he let that happen? how could he be SO stupid?! What the hell is he going to do now? There was no way out, no one knew where he was or that he was even gone.
John was innocent. He did nothing wrong and has never hurt anyone. He's so loving and caring and is probably the best man Sherlock has ever known but now his life is in danger and it was just because of him. Just because of his stupid boredom and his bloody urges! Suddenly he realized that he was now standing. His hands pressed hard into the surface of the little table in the corner of the room, his head down and his eyes wet and swollen. He was breathing heavily holding back his tears pressing his lips together trying not to cry. The shame and guilt, the uncertainty and helplessness, the boredom and the longing to John all raged in his mind and so it became harder to hold his tears, his eyes were now burning with pain and his lips trembled violently. He pushed his lips into his shoulder in a feeble attempt to make it stop but the emotions just were too much for him to handle and for the first time in years a single tear of actual pain ran down his cheek. This one treacherous tear, sliding there, he shouldn't cry. He never cries. Just like Mycroft said that day all those years ago "Crying is just for babies. Sentimental people get hurt. Don't pay attention to them they're stupid." and so was that tear, bloody stupid! But the tear broke the dam and was followed by many others. They just kept on flowing down his cheeks and soon were accompanied by voice. Cracked deep and ongoing, the crying seemed to last forever and Sherlock just couldn't stop. It got louder and louder and heavier to bear so he just put his elbows on the table and held his face in his hands. Weak. He thought to himself. You are weak! Moriarty was right and now John stands no chance. What would he do?
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