A/N Wow, I'm just going to be apologizing for late posting right through the end, aren't I?

Thanks to 666BloodyHell666, starrysummernights, Song of Grey Lemons, Hummingbird1759, Rain Hamish Holmes, total-animal-lover, hjohn302, House of Thorns, sparrowismyhummingbird, johnsarmylady, Motaku1235, WiltedBloom, and Florence the Impaler

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

LXXXVIII. Pain

"It hurts, doesn't it?" the psychopath breathes, his Irish accent velvet as it brushes against Sherlock's ear, soft and unnaturally cool. "Oh, it hurts…"

The detective bites down into his own teeth, clenching them together as his whole form shudders, nerves on fire as Moriarty giggles and steps back again. His light fingers click, and then the burning metal brand comes down again on Sherlock's bare back, scorching the skin, and it's all he can do not to scream, his muscles trembling and his lungs shaking with the effort as the white-hot pain streaks down his spine, presses into his shoulders, tearing his very mind into a thousand pieces to make way for the blinding cloud of agony. It shines behind his eyes, blazingly scarlet, but he still doesn't allow himself to make a sound.

"Burn the heart out of you," Moriarty trills almost thoughtfully, pacing slowly before Sherlock, who strains for the thousandth time against the metal cuffs holding him on the cold metal table that presses into his stomach and chest, chills his collarbone. He forces his chin up so that he can keep Moriarty in his line of sight, and the ache that such an action induces in the muscles is nothing compared to the waves of fire dancing along his back. "You know what I meant by that, of course you do, you know where your heart lies…"

John, his mind tells him, and he can't connect the name to a face, knows in some hidden part of his brain that doing such will make everything a hundred times worse.

"But it would be far too dull to simply hurt him. No, I wanted to see physical pain in your eyes, Sherlock… those lovely eyes." Cold fingers brace themselves under his chin, and his head is tilted back even farther, he's forced to stare into the face grinning down at him—a pale face, eyes wide and dark and demonic. "But don't fret, dear, Dr. Watson is still suffering… oh, he's suffering."

He lets go so fast that Sherlock's head thuds down against the table, his jaw banging against the metal and his teeth unwillingly cutting into his lip. Metallic crimson fills his mouth immediately, and he spits it out, the blood-tinged saliva splattering over his chin as well as the table. Moriarty's fingers snap again, and the heat torturing his back is momentarily lifted, such a relief that he has to fight to stay conscious, not to faint into the sweetness of reprieve. It's a struggle, and black spots still flow before his eyes, weaving in and out.

"He's suffering," Moriarty whispers, his voice low and deadly, "because he sees this, Sherlock. It's being recorded, and Johnny boy is watching. We have him, tied up… his eyes taped open… he's watching every second of this. Can you imagine the look on his face?"

"You're lying," Sherlock chokes, his voice hoarse to the point of being unrecognizable.

But Moriarty only laughs, and the metal brand comes down on the burned flesh of Sherlock's back once again.

This time, he does scream.