Big thank you to my Sherlock roleplay partner Sam for proofing this and adjusting when necessary: .net/u/2294000/Samuel_MacIntyre
She played the part of Sherlock in our roleplays.
Warnings: Contains slash and scenes of torture; dark scenes ahead.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.
Once again Sherlock awoke from sleep, aware of a mixture of pained sensations. Moriarty had been careless, and the whip had bitten deeper than it should have across the detective's shoulderblades and at the base of his spine. The half-formed scabs over the lashes pulled tight as Sherlock tensed, and he stopped before they could break open.
This was not what he was used to, being so brutally handled. Moriarty was gone from sight for the moment and Sherlock took that rare quiet time to lift his head (with great effort) from the bed.
It was dark in the room; the windows had been blacked out so Sherlock didn't even know if it was night or day. An absence of natural light made it impossible to tell how long he'd been here. He wasn't wearing a watch, after all. Right now, he couldn't have cared. The pain in his back sent a shock through him when he tried to lift his body up. The skin that wasn't broken from the lashes felt hot and swollen, and Sherlock knew there would be deep bruising there. Shuddering, he let himself collapse face down once more onto the silken bed sheets. His hands were tied in front of his body, silk scarves in naval knots to match the sheets this time, to make room for whatever torture his back endured.
"I see you've woken up, my pet." Behind Sherlock, a chair creaked as a weight was lifted out of it -Moriarty, presumably, a fact that was proved when the mastermind sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled Sherlock onto his back. The detective clenched his jaw to keep in a moan of pain and felt one finger trace the tendons standing out on his neck. Moriarty's weight shifted again as he leaned forward to turn on the bedside light.
In any other circumstances, the soft glow of the little Tiffany lamp would have been romantic. Moriarty perched on the edge of the bed, shirt and trousers unbuttoned and hanging loose. A day's worth of stubble dusted his jaw and cheeks but he seemed not to notice. Holding up his weight with one hand, his other rested in his lap, idly toying with an object that Sherlock couldn't see. "I know leaving you tied up all night was mean, my precious pet, but I know how anticipation makes it all so much sweeter," he practically cooed, still trailing his fingers over Sherlock's neck and jaw.
"Still, I've kept you waiting far too long." The hand in Moriarty's lap lifted, displaying a black leather collar studded with clear gems. "I had it made just for you, Sherlock. Now be a good boy and lift your head so Master can give you your present."
Sherlock didn't move. The hand that had been lightly caressing his neck moved lower, tensing, manicured nails raking over his collarbone.
"Come on, Sherlock, don't be stubborn."
The detective still didn't move, but he sucked in a breath when Moriarty's nails sank into the soft skin under his collarbones. The sharp sting made his head drop back, and in a move too fast to follow the collar was buckled about his neck and pulled tight. The buckle was cold against his pulse and the thing restricted his breathing slightly.
"There, isn't that pretty? It looks so nice against your white skin." A fingertip traced the collar and Sherlock shuddered. "Now be a good pet, or Master will make this tighter... There's a good boy." The detective closed his eyes to keep from wincing as sudden hot breath ghosted around the shell of his ear, and teeth nipped rather un-gently on the now pink area.
Moriarty gave the collar a rough yank and this time it made Sherlock choke. "It feels nice doesn't it, precious?" When the pressure let up just a little bit, Sherlock took in a gasping breath and was pulled to his knees. "Lean forward for me, Sherlock…" The detective instead took more breaths, trying not to concentrate on the pain.
"…Jo-John…" Sherlock's voice was strained and weak
"Oh, you want your little shadow, do you, pet?" Moriarty dragged his nails down Sherlock's back and drew a moan of pain from his mouth as he fell forward. Moriarty pulled down his own trousers and leaned forward, whispering into his ear. "I shall grant you your wish." Sherlock's phone was on the floor beside them. Reaching down and pulling the decorated collar as he did so, Moriarty placed the phone in front of Sherlock.
"We'll just wait a moment before we call him. There are a few things we need to set straight, my love." Moriarty smirked and removed his underwear.
John's night was agonizingly slow. He may have been sharing a room with James, but the driver wasn't the most talkative of company. Not that John really wanted company; he would have much preferred being by himself so he could cry in private. He did cry though, sometime in the night. Whether or not James heard it, the driver decided not to let on. Still, John wasn't in the right place to complain. Mycroft was doing all he could to rescue Sherlock and had at least two pairs of eyes on the criminal's mansion at all times.
He fell asleep well after James did, at around midnight. It was only a three hour sleep but it was the best John was going to get for a while. The only light source in the room throughout the night was from the hallway light, which shone through the crack under the door and made only basic shapes and outlines visible. The brocade pattern lining the wallpaper was virtually blurred into the wall itself. Despite the presence of James in the bed across from him, John felt very alone and slightly scared.
When the morning light finally broke through the thin nylon curtains, James woke up. The driver sat up and stretched, flicking the curtain back to peer outside. He swung his legs out of bed and yawned.
"Good-morning." he said, seeing John lying on top of the covers in thought. "Did you sleep well?"
"Not really, but thanks." John sighed and slipped his body back under the covers. "I'm going to try and catch another few hours if I can. Can you tell Mycroft not to order me breakfast?"
"Of course I can, Mr. Watson." James took an armful of clothes from his weekend bag and headed for the bathroom to change.
"You can call me John." With that, John rolled over and buried his head beneath the covers to try and sleep. It was still early yet…
A few hours later, John's eyes fluttered open. He had finally managed to fall asleep for an hour. Hauling himself from the bed, John got dressed and checked his phone. He half expected to see a text from Sherlock, telling him everything was alright. It wasn't a text that came though, though… It was a phonecall.
At first John didn't know whether it was an optical illusion or just his mind re-arranging words into what he wanted to see. But it wasn't; it was the real thing. His fingers shook as he pressed the answer button and raised the phone to his ear. There was a moment of silence, for John was too afraid to speak. And then there was a sharp groan that could only have been from Sherlock.
"Sherlock…" John blinked and had to sit down on the edge of the bed. He was answered with some muffled whispering and another groan.
"John, please d-don't come for me. Find someone else to hold your leash… Because I'm on Moriarty's now…" John was stunned, mouth opening and closing like a fish. His free hand twisted itself into the bed-sheets. A soft chuckle could be heard in the background before the phone was picked up and another voice greeted John.
"You heard him. Sherlock doesn't want you anymore John, he's my pet now. Just give up." A very loud, very satisfied groan rang through the phone alongside pained whimpering. John sucked in a breath angrily and was about to snap back when the phone went dead. That was it, that's what got John's blood boiling. In a rage, he put on some shoes and rooted around his bag until his hand found what he was searching for; his gun. Slipping it under his shirt and into the waistband of his jeans, John all but sprinted down the stairs and into the entrance foyer,
"Doctor Watson?" Anthea was sitting on a cream couch when John came down, raising an eyebrow at him.
"Where are Mycroft and Lestrade?" John looked around for the two men before his attention was returned to Anthea.
"In that dining hall over there." She pointed the hand with her blackberry towards large double doors to the left. "They were having breakfast last time I checked. Do you want me to call- Doctor Watson?" John ran to the left before she could finish and barged into the dining hall.
Mycroft and Lestrade had been sitting across from eachother by a square oak table. Their hands were almost touching in the middle and their heads were bent forward as if in deep conversation. When John burst through they separated, Mycroft patting down the front of his suit and Lestrade clearing his throat. The look on John's face distracted them both from their "almost caught" act.
"John?" Mycroft stood up and tilted his head. "What's the matter?" The DI had brought Anderson of all people with him, but the sulky forensics investigator wasn't present at that moment, thankfully.
"We have to get Sherlock! We have to get him now!" John ranted and took out his phone. "Moriarty called me and then there were noises and then Sherlock telling me not to come look for him and before I could say anything that bastard took the phone up and-"John had to take a deep breath, "-he said that Sherlock was his pet now!" Throughout that angry venting, Lestrade had walked over to John and took him by the shoulders.
"Calm down, John! Take a breath and we can talk this out rationally-"
"There is no rationally! Sherlock is being abused by that bastard and I'm not standing for it!" John shook off Lestrade and walked over to Mycroft. "I have my gun, can we not take a risk?"
"John-"Mycroft's voice was one of hesitation, as if he were going to suggest something like Lestrade had.
"Fine!" John threw his arms angrily into the air, feeling hot tears prick behind his eyes. "If you're not going to help I'm going myself!" With that he turned on his heels and ran back out the way he came. He was followed by the two men halfway up the stairs and Lestrade took him by the wrists.
"John!" Mycroft held his umbrella in front of the doctor so he couldn't move any further. "Relax! We all want Sherlock back but in order to help him we need to know what exactly was said, devise a sensible plan and then decide what our course of action will be." In that time, John had taken a deep breath and nodded, rubbing his eyes. Mycroft's sense of power along with his calm tone of voice seemed to calm John down too.
"Right… Right." He sighed and walked back a step. "But we need to hurry." He looked between the two men and they nodded. Lestrade let go of his wrists and walked back down. Mycroft patted his shoulder and led John back into the dining area. He whispered something to the manager and received a nod. The other diners that were eating breakfast were ushered out so the three men could talk in private.
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