He could taste the cleanness of the air; the clinical smell of hospitals with the air being endlessly recycled through filters and a strong scent of sanitiser and bleach. He was under no illusions as to what the bleach had been used for and grinned underneath the burlap sack which covered his head. They were being so careful, making sure he didn't see where he was going and being all covert. So predictable. It wasn't hard to discern his surroundings, even with his impaired vision. He was in a brightly lit corridor; the white lights shone in vague shapes through the rough weave and his and his company's footsteps echoed loudly in the enclosed space.

The conditions he had been kept in had been pretty decent until now but he had had an idea that this was coming. It didn't faze him much. He walked with more dignity than could be usually expected from someone who was handcuffed and couldn't see where he was going and kept his pace and balance despite the impatient shoving. They turned into a room where the smell of bleach got even stronger and he was pushed non-too-gently into a chair. There was some quiet mumbling off to his left and he heard someone approach.

"Very dramatic! I looove your style of kidnap," he said, his voice muffled by the sack dripping with sarcasm.

"Shut up you cocky little shit."

"Well that's not very profe…" His head jerked to the side and then a wave of pain flashed from his temple and reverberated down his spine. The pain peaked as his vision blurred to black.

He floated through a huge mess of thoughts randomly scattered around and although they were disorganised he knew where every single one was. He didn't need to look far for one of his most recent memories.

***
The man in front of him crumpled to the ground and the shot echoed across the tube station. There was a second of stunned silence. There was less screaming and arm waving than you would think in the chaos that followed with people more focused on getting the hell out of there than making a big scene. He sat down on a nearby seat, texting Sebastian to go now the job was done, and waited. He knew that Sebastian didn't like this plan at all, thought he was getting obsessed. This is what needed to be done though. The blood spreading across the floor was very beautiful and he stared at it while he waited. Such a deep shade; all other colours were black and white compared to the actual colour of that life and vitality. What was taking them so long? Maybe a shooting in a London tube station wasn't worth rushing for; the station was completely empty now. Oh, at last here they were. Armed police by the handful. They surrounded his seat, aiming their guns at him.

"Hello! I'm Jim by the way, wonderful to meet you all." He stood up and waved cheerily causing them all to shift their weapons. A shadowy figure walked forward so they were just behind the line of police.

"Wonderful to meet you too, I'm sure."

Red dots flashed against his retina and he had a terrible headache. He had no idea how much time had passed; the sack had been removed and his hands were now tied uncomfortably behind his back by, he assumed, cable ties which bit into his wrists which were already raw. Opening his eyes, he blinked against the bright light and laughed quietly.

"Awake now? I'm so glad you find your situation so amusing," the same man who was at the station was stood in front of him, his hand resting on a black umbrella, "No matter what you think, this isn't common practice, even in my line of work. But don't let that make you think that we cannot cause you a lot of pain."

"I know what you want," Jim said in a sing-song voice, "and you are going to have to try harder than this to get it."

"Tell me the code. You aren't stupid; you know how this will play out." The room was empty apart from his and another chair and was quite large with bare concrete walls and strip lights.

"Well I love a challenge," he grinned provocatively, "But I am very confident in my success."

"You of all people should know that everyone breaks eventually." He strolled over to the other chair and sat carefully down in it. "Now I will ask you again; what is the code?"

Another man who Jim hadn't seen before stepped out from behind him. There was nothing special about his appearance, just very average-looking.

"This gentleman is here to aid your memory; I'm sure you are familiar with the role and that I don't have to spell it out." The man fastened what looked like a knuckleduster to his hand and flexed it menacingly.

"Do your worst!" He strained forward in the chair and bared his teeth, the ties now starting to draw blood. A fist came swinging into his cheek and lights flashed in his eyes again as pain blossomed and shook his skull, adding to his throbbing headache.

He started with fingers, releasing one of Jim's hands and holding his index finger in a tight grip. There was a crack and Jim threw his head back and held back a scream.

"Are you ready to divulge yet?"

"We haven't been here long, surely you have higher expectations for me than that," he said through gritted teeth. They couldn't break him with pain; the pain was not a real thing, just chemical signals from his brain. The man moved onto his middle finger and he smiled right at Jim as he delicately held the fingertip with one hand and the joint at the knuckle with the other. He paused for a moment before pulling up and to the side, dislocating the bone and tearing the ligaments and tendons. Jim hissed angrily and blood dripped from the fingers of his other hand as his he writhed against his restraints. The man punched him again, another crack and hot blood gushed down over his face and onto his clothes which were, he noticed, terribly crumpled. He was wearing the same clothes which he had been wearing at the tube station; his dark blue suit now had a big dark brown stain on the chest. His nose stung but it was nothing against the fiery pain in his broken fingers. He started to giggle lightly which built up into maniacal laughter; as if they thought the pain bothered him! He reacted to it but it was simply an experience which happened to be more intense than normal ones. He was merely an observer within his own mind. Their inability to see this was hilarious, not to mention downright dim.

"Are we going to have to do this? This isn't a part of some game," still sat on his own chair, the shadowy man motioned to his second, "Or am I going to have to dissect you piece by piece?"

Jim made a show of tasting the blood on his lip, it was tangy and metallic. Of course this was a game; it was a game of wills. And he was going to win.

"You know what I want." The unnerving smile never left his blood-covered face and his dark eyes, dilated in the bright light, drew you in, just as the edge of a cliff draws you subconsciously towards it.
Yes, he did know what he wanted.

"You are certainly not in a position to be demanding terms," he made a lazy slashing motion with his index finger and the other man fixed Jim's hand back in place with a tie, squeezing his broken fingers and making him wince involuntarily. He then proceeded to unbutton Jim's suit jacket and shirt to expose his pale chest then producing a small knife.

"I will lay it out for you. If you do not tell me what the code is I will have you screaming in agony, you will not be able to speak afterwards. I am giving you a choice."

"You know what I want and the funny thing is you will give it to me if it means you get my code. I have a feeling that you will break first Mycroft Holmes." Mycroft looked slightly taken aback that he knew his name but quickly recovered his expression of relaxed control. He nodded slightly and the man rested the cool blade against Jim's stomach. He pressed down, pulling horizontally across his midsection. The wound wasn't deep but it hurt so much. There was a dull ache for a second before the sharp pain registered, leaving his mind a cacophony of raw impulses, every nerve ending on fire. Despite all of this going on in his brain, he let out another gasp of laughter as his blood dripped out random rhythm on the floor; a macabre soundtrack to accompany his situation.

Another cut to his abdomen and his laughter grew louder with the pain. It was his shield. A third parallel incision had him shrieking manically. The pattering on the floor was increasing by the second and as he weakened his vision started to go fuzzy and his laughter shrank until he would only giggle sporadically as if he were convulsing.

That annoying man was talking at him again. The rushing in his ears was too loud for him to concentrate on what was being said. The man-he-didn't-know cleaned his knife and looked towards Mycroft who said something to him. Jim felt a cooling on his lacerated torso and looked down to see the man pouring water onto his cuts, washing the blood away. The water was soothing and ebbed the throbbing pain. Something was wrong though. His skin began to prickle and a sudden burning sensation ripped at his stomach causing him to arch his back and groan. Acid. They were burning him. How very ironic. The searing agony felt like it was melting his flesh off of him but he embraced it and let it consume his mind. He did not control the pain, he was the pain.

A few more acid burns, some broken toes and a considerably larger puddle of blood later it was quite clear that torture was not going to work.

"You cannot break me. I am already broken."

Mycroft had to admit to himself that Moriarty was right about that. He was too far gone, too insane, to be affected by anything so simple as pain. He knew what the madman wanted.

"Bring me the file on Sherlock Holmes."

Mycroft felt as if he had betrayed Sherlock. He had betrayed his own little brother. This made him feel very disconsolate so he went to his mind bakery and ate some mind-cake and tried to forget about the terrible ordeal by drowning his sorrows in cake. Lots and lots of cake.

THE END