A/N: So here's a teaser mini chapter to give y'all a taste of what's coming up! Uh oh for Sherlock…
Sherlock's eyes slowly opened, revealing a wondrously stocked and furnished study. Must be, hmmm, maybe second floor? Definitely not ground. One door, locked. Small vents. One phone. His vision sharpened as he came more into the conscious realm, and he found himself staring across at James "Jim" Moriarty. The consulting criminal's profile was all he could make out for the moment. And then the events prior to him blacking out came flooding back with echoes of fear and helplessness. John! Jim must have been in the flat the entire time. Or, possibly, he had been observing the flat from a ways down the street and has seen John leave, letting himself in since John had been in a hurry and hadn't bothered to lock the door behind him. Damn, he thought to himself as he realized his wrists and lower abdomen were secured with duct tape to the free standing chair he sat in. There must be no one nearby who would rush to his aid either, or else his captor wouldn't have left him ungagged. Curious, a bit that. And then those dark eyes flicked sideways, and Jim turned to face him, the light traces of an Irish accent still clinging to his words.
"Good morning, dearie. I realize that you've already analyzed this room about three times by now, so there's no need for me to tell you that it's a hopeless cause to try for escape at this juncture."
Sherlock locked eyes with the man, saying, "Secured to a chair, higher than ground level, me waking to face you dead on….how very…conventional of you," he sneered. "Got big plans do you? Ask my brother to trade for government secrets? Force Lestrade to stand by while you do…whatever it is that you actually do?"
Jim smiled a tiny, fast-dying little grin as he first looked down, then back up at the detective. He grabbed something from his jacket as he walked slowly over beside Sherlock. Then he held it out for him to see while he toyed with it. A small, sharp, dagger. "Oh, those are all normal ideas, Sherlock. Uninteresting. I've got to go a step farther for you. After all," he crouched down a bit, chanting, "I. Owe. You." He stood back up fluidly, circling the chair once to return before his prisoner, speaking in his favored sing-song voice, "I've got something special for yoooouuuu." He twirled the knife. "An offer. And one of a kind, too. Too good to pass up." Sherlock stared up at him in challenge, obviously not believing a word Moriarty spoke. "Aren't you ever…lonely?" Jim began. The knife stopped spinning. "Oh yes, you are, aren't you? That's what you were trying with, what's his name, your little pet? John? Yes, you were going to play with him, weren't you?" The knife resumed its slow turns as the slight man began to walk once more.
"Don't you need someone who understands you? Sherlock?" he drew out the name like a prayer, almost whispered. And he reached over from behind and ran the blade along the detective's ribs as he spoke softly, circling. The sharpened edge slid along and up to the side of Sherlock's temple as he continued speaking, "Someone who thinks like you?" He was just about returned to his position in front again. His grip adjusted on the knife as he suddenly straddled those long legs, pressing against the detective firmly and looking into those silvery blue eyes, so cold, and continued, "Feels like you?" And then, just light enough to draw blood, Jim nicked his own forearm with the knife, holding it up between them, and watched in silent fascination as the blood ran downward and onto their laps, eyes flickering to Sherlock's intermittently, his voice almost inaudible now, "Someone, who bleeds like you?" The consulting criminal's eyes cast their unholy light up to Sherlock's own as he fondled the red-tinged dagger lightly…and he smiled, "Do you bleed, as I bleed, Sherlock?" The detective merely steeled himself for the pain to come. But suddenly, the ever-fickle Jim Moriarty jumped up and strode over to his computer.
"Have to keep tabs on your friends!" he said merrily. "Wouldn't want them barging into our party too soon. We need to be sure there's plenty of 'us' time first." His hands flew over the keys, stopping here and there as he focused on something. Then, he sat for a moment, studying the screen and pulled the knife up to file at his nails as he waited for some unknown sign. "They're awfully dense, you're friends." And he lapsed into silence, watching, waiting. Sherlock finally figured he was getting no facts by remaining quiet, and he was starved for a bit of information, any piece of data, that he could analyze and put to use for himself. So he chose a course of confrontation with the most chance of successfully garnering him what he was in for here, as this madman's captive. Though he had an idea, and the physicality of it sickened him, especially with this newfound question of John. He could survive physical assaults on his person, but how would it affect John? That's a matter for later consideration, though. For now: information reconnaissance.
"It's disgustingly mundane, what you're doing." Jim looked up from filing his nails as the sound of Sherlock's voice broke through the silence of his study. He cocked his head, smiling as if to say, 'Go on.' The detective continued from his tethered position. "So, you're going to, what, rape me?" he said, popping the 'P' in the word rape, making it sound such a tedious action. "Threatening me with such physical brutality…." he shook his head as if in reprimand…"Ordinary. Predictable." His silver eyes locked on the other man's as he finished, "Boring." And Jim smiled all the wider, setting aside the knife and standing to cross back over to the restrained detective. He leaned down into Sherlock's eye level, absent-mindedly running a gentle hand down the side of his prisoner's face before speaking softly. "Oh, I want your body, Sherlock," he began, leaning ever closer to an ear to whisper, "But I'll have your mind first." His hand glided over a shoulder and began tracing down the length of the taller man's lean extremity. "Mind first. Then the body. Will. Follow," he finished, tapping the arm to emphasize each of the last few words. Sherlock's gaze was as ice as he stared in challenge to this declaration. And Jim bit his bottom lip, nodding, as he leaned back and looked thoughtfully down at his prisoner, still smiling. Only it didn't reach his eyes. "And the best part? After a while, you'll hate yourself. You will hate yourself, Sherlock…..because you'll want this, too."