~ Requiem ~
John blinked away the residue of whatever drug they'd pumped him full of, feeling the fuzziness and heaviness of his limbs with quiet dismay. He rolled his eyes, catching a wavering glimpse of his own bare feet and the knees of his hospital scrubs before making the move to raise his head.
He was momentarily blinded by the florescent lights around him, shining down from an egg white ceiling and bouncing off the identical walls and floor. He groaned as the aches and pains of his body made themselves known, wasp stings darted up his arms and legs, chewing his chest, digging toward his ribs.
"Reluctance is shameful, isn't it, Johnny boy? And quite unacceptable considering your current circumstances." His voice, Moriarty's, boomed loudly in the small room and made John shrink back into his chair.
For a moment he was caught in a memory, Sherlock's face swam in and out of focus, the first time they had met, before fading into nothing. John stared in bewilderment at the flashing demon eye blinking at him. A camera.
"Wakey, wakey, darling. Sherlock wants to see your pretty face." The other man's hand suddenly appeared by his cheek, slapping slightly. But his hand was gentle, barely a slap. A caress. A stroke. John cringed.
He did not know Moriarty well, but he suspected this little display was for Sherlock's sake. That Moriarty really was incapable of feeling emotions. Of feeling empathy or desire or grief. The thought was not a pleasant one, it meant that the likelihood of John surviving was slimmer, and that his death would, more likely than not, be worse than any torture.
He let loose a little, forlorn sigh.
Moriarty leaned his young face close to John's so that he too could be seen through the camera lens. John tensed, he could feel Moriarty breathing along his cheek, feel the cold kind of arrogance radiating off of him in waves. John stifled his own breathing, knowing it was racing, as was his heart.
"Hello, Sherlock! See! Here we are! Alive- although- not so sure about well."
He wrapped an arm around John's shoulders, pulling them even closer together. It was then that John saw the little earpiece in Moriarty's ear, no doubt it was how he as communicating with Sherlock. John looked back to where the camera sat, motionless on a tripod. That meant that Sherlock was watching.
"Quite so! Isn't that right, Johnny? You see, Sherlock, this is the first test of the game, I have the treasure, and you have to complete the steps to get it. Sound fun? Yes, I thought as much." Moriarty paused, cocking his head to one side. "Now, now, Sherlock, that was rather rude. And just after you ignored my message!" He let out a mock gasp of exasperation and then a smile lit his face.
John was feeling decidedly dizzy, the room was spinning, he could barely think. He closed his eyes against the nausea rolling through his stomach. Everything hurt.
"Time for some incentive, I think." Moriarty was suddenly hauling John upright, heedless of the other man's groan or the weakness in his limbs. They approached the claw footed bathtub, and John looked around in vague surprise, he saw that they were, indeed, in a bathroom. A toilet sat in a crowded alcove, a mirror sat above a curved sink and there was a narrow, white, closet that looked as if it had never been touched.
"How are you feeling, Johnny boy?" Moriarty asked him, sucking in a breath through his teeth as John glared at him. "Tsk Tsk. That is a sinister look."
Moriarty pushed John against the edge of the bathtub until he leaned against it and, leaving him propped up there, he pranced back over to the camera and tripod and scooped it up. He looked so excited, so happy.
John watched nervously from his perch on the bathtub, knowing this could not possibly end in a good way. He tried to straighten his legs but found himself sliding down to the tiled floor with a whimper.
Clamping his mouth, he looked up in time to see the camera waved in his face, the lens almost an inch from his nose.
"Isn't he pretty? Isn't he sweet? You're so lucky to have a pet like him, Sherlock. So lucky. But now I get to play with him." Moriarty was saying, one hand keeping the camera trained on John's face as he shoved the other into his pocket.
He appeared to be listening, to Sherlock no doubt, and a little crease formed between his brow. His eyes darkened.
John imagined himself a stone, emotionless, falling to lie at the bottom of a river. Worn smooth by years of wear. He trained his gaze on the camera, desperately wanting to see his friends face at that moment. He wanted to say something. It was okay. He would be fine. Don't worry. But his lips were numbed. Useless, in a way that frightened him.
He was useless.
"Quite enough talking, Sherlock, my boy. I'm beginning to grow tired of this. Is it perhaps, that you are reluctant to carry on with this game? Surely not." A pause. "But Johnny here is a major player! He is yours, and so he has to play." Another pause. "Very well, if you'll not see it my way..."
With one hand, Moriarty pushed John into the bath which was, he found, filled with bitterly cold water. It was too easy, John was weak and he found himself falling without hindrance. Moriarty's hand lingered, holding him under even as he struggled wildly against him.
Flailing. Failing.
John tried not to breathe, to hold his breath, but the water flowed forcefully between his lips and down his throat. His body fought to expel the liquid but only succeeded in drowning him further.
It was frightening. This helplessness. Being the victim.
Blinded by his fear, John could not see the camera, nor Moriarty's contorted face. His fingers scrabbled uselessly at the smooth edges of the tub, they found no purchase, and he could do nothing but thrash wildly and hope that he struck Moriarty purely by good luck.
Of course, he didn't.
And it was only when he began to dim, lungs full and limbs beginning to sink back into the water. Limp. It was only then that Moriarty hauled him upward, and back up to the surface.
For a long moment John stared, heavy lidded, at the other man. The next moment he was expelling all the water in a wave of vomit and clear liquid that left his throat and nose burning. His eyes watered but he made no move to wipe away the stray tears of pain and fear. Scared. Lonely.
Shiver.
Distantly aware of a voice, dipping up and down, speaking.
John was limp; the only thing holding him above the water's surface was the hand grasping the back of his scrubs. His chin dipped into the water. His lower lips. Upper lip. The tip of his nose.
Sputtering, desperately wanting nothing more than to escape the icy water, John felt a scream building at the depths of stomach. It grew, a bubble, expanding to fill the hollow that was his chest and throat. And then it seemed to burn, choke, he felt it at the back of his tongue, like something living and breathing.
A monster crawling upward from his innards. Claws and teeth. Snarling.
He parted his lips, intent on letting the scream loose, and then he was pushed back into the icy water. It was a shock. Almost as much as the first. His eyes widened impossibly wide as he felt the water re-entering his lungs and stomach. He thrashed again, and this time felt Moriarty's hand on his chest give.
A spark of hope lit in his chest, and he kicked out again, feeling his bare foot hit something solid. Energy coursed through his veins then. His mind was screaming.
FREEDOM. FREE. ESCAPE. COLD.
He surged to the surface. Face breaking through and drawing in such a deep breath that he thought he might faint. But the energy fled as soon as he gulped that air. With a panicked cry he watched as the other man leaned over him once more.
He opened his mouth wide and let the scream out.
It was an awful sound. Like a roar. It scratched at his ears and hurt his throat. But he could not stop it, not even when he was plunged back under and his scream was soundless and even the thrumming of his heart muffled.
Not even trying to hold his breath, John quickly succumbed to the hazy stillness. It crept up on him with skeletal fingers and a starry sky, obliterating anything but the pinpricks of light that filtered through his lashes.
John felt his muscles ease. His body ceased its struggles and the water went calm. He was floating.
Awake. But not.
He could see his hands just in front of his face, scant inches away. They looked pale and bruised. There was a line of stiches running from his left wrist to halfway down to his elbow. Moriarty was no longer holding him down. John could see him, a blurry, half formed figure above the quivering water. There was a blocky shape, that John assumed was the camera, and the flashing demon eyes.
He might have gone insane, in those few seconds while he was underwater. Insane because he was going to die like this. Insane because he knew Sherlock would be eaten alive by guilt. Insane because the only think he wanted to do, at that moment, was stop fighting and let himself be dragged completely under.
Darkness in the form of whispered sighs clogged his mind. Clouded his eyes. Filled his nose and mouth. John felt nothing.
~OO~
It was, Sherlock decided, a mystery as to why Scotland Yard had not crumbled to ruins by lack of competence.
Lestrade was better, but still not good enough. Donovan was tailing Sherlock around, a dog sniffing at his heels with a strangely bulldog-like sneer adorning her plane features. It bothered Sherlock more than it should have.
His phone beeped. He'd been holding it, so only had to raise it to peer at the screen, yet still it almost tumbled from his fingers like a bar of soap.
A moment later, the text read, and all three were huddled around the laptop on Lestrade's desk. The was still. Thick. Unsure.
The phone rang.
"Speaker, Sherlock. Put it on speaker." Lestrade hissed quietly and Sherlock complied, albeit reluctantly.
A little chuckle filtered through the phone.
"Did you get my message, Sherlock? Did you read it?" The voice was unmistakable, a shiver ran the length of Sherlock's spine, but he remained impassive.
"Sher-looock, I know you're the-reee." A giggle.
"Hello, Moriarty." Sherlock responded eventually, voice cold. Clipped.
"Ah! There you go! And how are you, Sherlock? How are you?"
"What have you done with John?"
"Tsk tsk tsk. You've got to play the game, Mr Holmes. Do you want to know the rules?" Moriarty sounded petulant, as if Sherlock should have been excited about the prospect of a new game.
Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, thinking.
"Well, incentive is always key, isn't that right? Yes, quite so."
The laptop screen flickered to life. A video counted down. Donovan gasped, one hand flying to her mouth to smother it.
On the screen was John. Head bowed, body limp and wearing a pair of thin scrubs. From the view of the camera they could see most of his chest and his head. He looked to be in a white room, a bathroom, and there was a bathtub, toilet and sink beyond him.
"How do I know he's still alive?" Sherlock murmured and Moriarty chuckled.
They watched a pair of hands enter the screen and clap several times by John's ear. John twitched, head twitching and brow crinkling with each clap. Something in Sherlock relaxed. Seeing John alive made every muscle in his body relax.
He watched as John twitched again. His neck muscles tensed, and then he lifted his head, slowly, painfully slow. Glassy eyes spun to gaze around him, flinching when they met the bright light. He groaned and the sound filled Sherlock with something akin to rage. But not quite. Pure, unadulterated hate and the desire for revenge.
John shrank away as Moriarty spoke, and his voice boomed through both and camera and the phone.
"Reluctance is shameful, isn't it, Johnny boy? And quite unacceptable, considering your current circumstances."
John looked away from where Moriarty must have stood, and then his eyes fell on the camera. A flicker of fear passed over his face before he looked away. His eyes fluttered, threatening to close. Sherlock panicked.
"Wake him up, Moriarty." He demanded, and those hands reached out and ran down John's cheeks, finger tapping to get a response.
And when John roused, he spoke joyfully. "Wakey, Wakey, Darling. Sherlock wants to see your pretty face."
Their view of the room was suddenly obstructed as another face loomed in beside John's. A young man with short, dark hair and equally dark eyes. His mouth was curled in a smirk and he was wearing a white dress shirt buttoned all the way.
"Hello, Sherlock! See! Here we are! Alive- although- not so sure about well." Moriarty pulled John into a half hug, so close that their cheeks touched. John was staring at the camera. Motionless. Eyes a little too wide.
"You could have taken me, instead of John, Moriarty. It would have been just as easy. Unless you intend to get to me by torturing John. But what gives you the idea that it would get to me at all? What have I invested in John that could possibly give you the idea that I care at all. Many have said I am incapable of feeling anything."
"Quite so! Isn't that right, Johnny? You see, Sherlock, this is the first test of the game, I have the treasure, and you have to complete the steps to get it. Sound fun? Yes, I thought as much."
"If you hurt him, Moriarty, you will hurt." Sherlock said between gritted teeth. Donovan was eyeing him out of the corner of her eye.
"Now, now, Sherlock, that was rather rude. And just after you ignored my message!" He let out a gasp of exasperation. But they could all hear the laughter in it.
On the screen, John was wavering. His eyes were rolling dizzily in their sockets and it seemed it took him a great effort to keep them open at all. Moriarty suddenly grabbed a handful of scrubs at his shoulder and pulling him up and out of the chair. For a moment they could see nothing but a movement of clothes and then Moriarty leaned closer to the camera.
"Time for some incentive, I think." He said.
They approached the bathtub, and John was looking around, head lolling onto his shoulder as he moved. Sherlock could see the rapid rise and fall of his friend's chest as they stopped by the bathtub. Moriarty made John lean against it, Sherlock deduced that John was still under the influence of some kind of sedative.
"How are you feeling, Johnny boy?" Moriarty's question was answered with a silent scowl. "Tsk Tsk. That is a sinister look."
Moriarty came back to the camera, hefted it, and the next view they had was of John's lower back and the bathtub. It was full to the bring.
"Bloody hell." Lestrade swore and ran both hands through his hair, but he didn't look away. He couldn't.
Moriarty was dancing back around to stand beside John. He leaned over the tub and picked the camera up, they heard the little scuffle sounds and it was danced in from of his friend's face.
John let out a little whimper.
The camera danced closer and closer to his face.
"Isn't he pretty? Isn't he sweet? You're so lucky to have a pet like him, Sherlock. So lucky. But now I get to play with him."
"Moriarty." Sherlock said. Voice no more than a whisper. "Don't do it."
"Hmmm. I think I will, Sherlock, because you need to get it into your head that this game is real." Moriarty snarled the last word.
"Don't do it. We've just played a game, you've had your fun. Don't do it."
"Quite enough talking, Sherlock, my boy. I'm beginning to grow tired of this. Is it, perhaps, that you are reluctant to carry on with this game? Surely not."
"You're game will end in your death. Not John's. He has nothing to do with this. Let him go."
"But Johnny here is a major player! He is yours, and so he has to play."
"He is not mine. He doesn't deserve this. Just let him go, Moriarty."
"Very well, if you'll not see it my way..." Moriarty's voice trailed off and the camera swung wide. The next thing they knew, John was beneath the water, the camera hovering so close to the surface, yet never touching it.
Moriarty was laughing.
John as flailing. Hands the only limb above the water. They scrambled uselessly at the arm holding him down and at the edges of the tub.
"STOP IT!" Sherlock shouted, jarring both Lestrade and Donovan out of their horrified stupor, but they remained silent. Unsure. Scared.
John's face surged to the surface of the water, but he was unmoving, eyes dazed and mouth dribbling water. He was staring beyond the camera, presumably at Moriarty.
"John..." Sherlock longed to speak with his friend, more than anything in the world.
Almost on cue, John stirred sleepily, and then he began vomiting up everything that he'd swallowed, hacking up the water he'd breathed.
Tears spilled down his cheeks.
Sherlock was dimly aware, he dimly suspected, that it was the tears that made him shout, made him snarl at Moriarty when he so rarely showed emotion.
"Get him out of there and I'll do anything you want!"
He watched in desperation as John's face began to sink back into the water. He made a small sound.
"A bit more, I think, to convince you."
And John was forced under the water once more. He didn't struggle for as long, this time. He went so still. And then he began to kick and claw, he must have struck Moriarty because the camera backpedalled and they had a clearer view of the tug. John was almost sitting, but not for long.
That brief pause gave him opportunity to gasp in a lungful of air, and then he screamed.
He screamed and screamed and Sherlock was transfixed. He had never heard John utter a sound quite like that. Nothing quite like that.
The camera loomed.
John was underwater again. He went still. His eyes slowly closed.
"Moriarty." Sherlock whispered. "Moriarty. Moriarty, get him OUT OF THERE!"
There was a little giggle.
"Are you ready to play, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked and Sherlock nodded, before remembering that the other man could not see it. But it seemed he didn't need to. "Good."
The camera was replaced to its stand.
Moriarty went to the other side of the tub. He rolled his sleeves up. Casual. Unrushed. He leaned over and grasped John's shoulders, hauling him up and out of the water.
It was scary, how still his friend was. How lifeless he appeared. And he looked so small. So very small.
Moriarty dragged him out of the tub and lowered him to the tiles. He leaned close to John, face hovering over his. He raised one hand and brought it down, hard, against the other man's chest.
Just once.
John's body recoiled. Vomiting out water and bile and clawing at the ground in an attempt to get away from Moriarty.
The camera, yet again, was grabbed off its stand and brought close to John's face. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, filling his eyes. He was sobbing. A broken sound that tore something inside Sherlock.
"The game begins." Moriarty said. And laughed.
The screen went dead and the phone gave that little buzz and was silent.
I'm sorry about this chapter, it's pretty lame.
But I've been having a bad couple of days so, you'll have to forgive me.
Thank you all for the amazing reveiws!
name : Yes, the plot is as unoriginal as a rabbit poo, but hey, I like writing whump!
Thank you so everyone! Your reveiws are what keeps me writing!
-Alerix Slynn