Once again, major thanks to Sam for helping me with this. Yes, we are twisted.
Warnings: Contains slash and scenes of torture; dark scenes ahead.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.
Sherlock lay naked on his stomach on the silk bed. He was shuddering, whimpering softly, and feeling utterly broken. His hands had been let loose of their ties for a while and the tight collar taken off. But the detective hadn't even the strength to lift them. Instead they lay limp in front of his head, just by his messy, damp curls. There was a dull throb of pain around his back and hips and to move around was utter torture. Sleep wasn't an option; every time he closed his eyes and seemed about to doze off, visions of Moriarty flashed through like a bolt of lightning and brought him back to consciousness. Once again the familiar creak of a chair behind him made Moriarty's presence known.
"I think we should re-tie those hands of yours, eh my pet?" Moriarty cooed, slipping onto the bed and tracing his fingers on the fresher whip lines. "Who knows what sudden strength could be pulled from you for my next act." Standing up, the criminal moved to the other side of the room and rooted around an intricately designed jewellery box.
Sherlock took a breath and raised his head. Through his eyes (which were like razor slits) he could see a brief glint from something sharp in Moriarty's fingers. On his way back, he picked up the silk scarves and dropped them beside Sherlock.
"Do them yourself, pet. I want to see you struggle." With an evil smirk, Moriarty dropped down onto the bed. When Sherlock did nothing, Moriarty dragged the sharp object in his hands across Sherlock's lower back. Needle, Sherlock thought. Taking a few sharp breaths, the detective used all the strength he had – which was very little – to drag his arms towards his body, rest on his forearms and pull himself up. It took at least three tries before he could sit up and onto his knees, at which point he had to concentrate to keep from falling over.
"S-Scarf-"A wheeze from Sherlock. He had been reduced to following the psychopaths every orders. Moriarty sighed and plucked the scarves from the sheets to drop them in Sherlock's pale hands. It was hard and daunting, but eventually the detective managed, using his fingers and teeth, to tie the scarves around his wrists and pull them into a knot. Not tight enough, though and Sherlock groaned when Moriarty yanked his hands forward and pulled the scarves into tight, double overhand knots.
It hurt, but not as much as when Sherlock was pushed down again with Moriarty straddling his back. The friction of the man's trousers against his raw back made Sherlock bite down on the sheets below him and close his eyes. "Shhh… Just relax, precious." Moriarty's fingers stroked Sherlock's right shoulder blade, dancing over the patch of skin which was surprisingly untouched. His nails began to lightly trace an M pattern, like a plastic surgeon would mark the parts of the body to cut along.
Picking up the needle, Moriarty moistened its sharp tip by licking his fingers and plucking it. Once again his fingers brushed over Sherlock's right shoulder blade, more delicately this time. When the tip pressed onto the smooth skin the first time, Sherlock had to keep from crying out. It pierced the skin and dragged down. Tears pricked in Sherlock's eyes and streamed down his cheeks. He wanted this torture to end; he wanted John to cling to and tell him he loved him. When the branding of M was seemingly done, Sherlock allowed himself to let out a deep groan.
The needle eventually withdrew from his skin and the surprisingly heavy body straddling his aching hips lifted away. Sherlock pressed his cheek into the pillow beneath his head, thankful that it was over. He thought, for a split second, that he would be allowed to rest now. He'd been marked and claimed; bites littered his neck, his back was criss-crossed with whip lashes, and now the M on his shoulderblade.
But apparently that was not enough for the psychopath. The scarves around his wrists were long, and the ends hung loose from the knots he'd tied. The detective had allowed himself to drift a bit, but a savage tug on his bindings made him cry out and snap to attention.
Moriarty bound his hands to the slats of the headboard, tying them neatly into another naval knot. "Now, precious, it's time to leave a real claim on you." He spoke close to Sherlock's ear again. He'd taken time to shave; what brushed against the detective's ear was smooth again. "I know your faithful little watchdog is going to come for you, and this," his hand fell on the M he'd carved into Sherlock's shoulder, "just isn't enough. This isn't going to last, not with Rover's medical care. I need to leave something that everyonewill see on you."
Moriarty withdrew again. Sherlock hadn't the strength to turn his head and watch, but he did have the strength to cock his ears and listen. Something was plugged into a wall socket, something let out a low electrical hum, and Moriarty's weight settled on his aching back and hips again. "Do try not to writhe about, precious. I'd hate to see a masterpiece ruined because of a careless canvas."
Something touched Sherlock's shoulder. There was a split instant of intense cold, like dry ice, quickly followed by the most intense heat Sherlock had ever felt. And with it came pain, strong enough that he couldn't cry out. And, just like that, Sherlock was utterly lost to it.
"I'm going to show you both something." Mycroft raised his umbrella and showed it to John and Lestrade, who were sitting on the table. Lestrade was the first to raise an eyebrow when Mycroft said nothing more.
"…Your umbrella? But you have about seven of those in- Never mind." The DI coughed. "What's the significance?" He almost gave away the fact he had been in either Mycroft's office or his house more than once, and the elder Holmes brother caught his eye for a mere few seconds. John didn't seem to notice though; all his thoughts were on Sherlock and the rescue plan.
"This isn't an umbrella." He caught the handle and pulled, revealing a long, steel sword and leaving the umbrella part behind. The sudden gasp from John made Mycroft smirk. Lestrade tilted his head and his brows knitted together; just how many of Mycroft's umbrellas were weapons in disguise?
"A… sword? Why is it a sword?" John shook his head. "No, don't answer that. At least we have an extra weapon."
"I have my gun too and Anderson will back us up if necessary." Lestrade hopped down from the table and went to have another look at Mycroft's sword, taking it up and running his finger along the blade. Thankfully, the lighting in the dining room concealed the colouring on Mycroft's cheeks well.
"So when are we going?" John put his gun back into the waistband of his jeans, looking to Mycroft expectantly.
"In a few hours, John. We need to wait for the signal from my look-outs. The guards take a twenty minute break around five in the evening and it only takes fifteen minutes to get there." Mycroft sheathed his sword-umbrella and looked back to John. "That gives us time for some lunch and then you can relax for a while before we make our way there."
"I don't know if I can relax." John sighed and rolled his neck, hearing a satisfying click.
"Try. We're all going to need our strength for tonight. There's a strong chance we might have to put up a fight. Come on, let's get some lunch." John had to smile when he thought of how Sherlock would never eat before a case. Mycroft made sure the blade was secured before propping his umbrella beside the table and moving to the double doors.
He muttered something to a waiter who was standing outside and Anthea came in along with James and Anderson. The sulky man himself didn't look all too pleased to be rescuing the "insufferable freak". It took a lot of John's willpower to not hit Anderson and so Mycroft made sure they sat as far away from each other as possible. Lestrade had warned him before arriving to keep his mouth shut and his guard high. Then again, if Anderson did truly hate Sherlock, he wouldn't have come along. It was obvious that beneath all that venom there was a caring side.
They ordered food, Mycroft with his usual plus another cup of green tea. It was only to be assumed that he was willing to give the green tea in this part of the country another chance. John just copied Lestrade and ordered a burger. When their order arrived several minutes later, the doctor could only push the food around his plate and take a few bites. He stood up before the rest were finished and excused himself to his room. He needed a shower and time to relax as much as he could.
"Meet us in the main foyer at five, everyone. James, you'll pass the message onto John won't you?" Mycroft winked and James nodded. Anthea followed swiftly, tugging Anderson along with her; both she and James knew the look from Mycroft that meant he wanted to be alone. This time it was with the DI. Lestrade stood up and rested against the edge of the table. It was rare that he got to be alone with the elder Holmes brother lately.
"We have a few hours and we know the main gist of our plan, so..." Mycroft locked the door and walked over to his secret lover. His hands found themselves on the DI's knees and he was given that special smile from Lestrade that was just for him. "I think we can take this time just for ourselves. Before things get hard." His hands slid up Lestrade's thighs, slowly caressing them.
"Well, I think that's a very good idea." Lestrade chuckled and hopped up onto the tabletop, allowing Mycroft to shuffle forward between his legs and wrap his arms around the DI's waist. He sighed and leaned his head forward to kiss Lestrade gently. He was awarded with a smile, Lestrade's hands settling on the elder Holmes brother's hips.
"I wish I got to see you more often." Lestrade sighed and leaned back to look at Mycroft. "Unfortunately both our jobs make that difficult."
"Mine more so than yours is what you mean, am I right?"
"No, I didn't mean it like-"
"Greg. It's fine. I know how it must be, but I promise I'll try my best to make more time for us. Just us." Mycroft smiled and kissed Lestrade once more before letting go. "Come on, let's go for a walk."
Lestrade could only smile and follow Mycroft out the door. Neither of them held hands; it was too risky and too soon.
Sherlock lay very, very still on top of the sheets. His shoulder throbbed and burned and the skin felt hot and tight. Moriarty had gone again, and not just to sit in the chair beside the bed. Really gone this time, leaving Sherlock in the room alone and aching. Alone, aching, and branded... Moriarty had laid a deep burn, enough to blacken and crisp the skin, over the needle-traced M on the back of his shoulder.
And that mark... No matter what John did for him... That mark was never going to be erased.
"John..."
Hope that didn't sink too deep.
Review replies:
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