John was dreaming. He was fully aware of that, and as the dream continued, he found he liked the idea more and more of never waking up. The past 12 hours had been torture, quite literally. His body ached and he had lost all strength. In rare, miraculous moments his dreams became his only escape. He was grateful enough that every so often, he found himself slipping into that deep sleep and dreaming of being home, safe and sound with Sherlock. He found it somewhat strange how in the midst of everything that was going on, his mind was still able to create such beautiful, comforting dreams for him, allowing him to forget his current predicament and escape, if only for a few hours.
His state of bliss did not last long however as he was suddenly jolted awake by a sharp pain. He gasped and his eyes flew open in shock. His eyes focused and he found his torturer standing in front of him, a newly bloodied knife in his grip. John winced and looked down to where the pain was coming from. His right shoulder was bleeding heavily, a fresh stab wound very present. Blood began flowing freely as gravity pulled it down his arm and to the ground. John grimaced and looked away from the wound. His whole body ached at the small movement and he tried his best to reposition himself. It proved difficult in the end. His hands were constrained above his head, his wrists taking most of the force as gravity pulled against them and his skin rubbed raw against the rope holding it all together. His clothes were torn and shredded, for he had been whipped and beaten practically nonstop since he had arrived there. His whole body was bruised, and as his skin dripped blood from numerous locations on his body, a small pool of it had begun to form around his feet. He let his body relax again the ropes, finding slowly as every hour passed that he couldn't even hold his own weight anymore. His legs relaxed and he hung there helplessly.
A blow to the face jolted John from the numbness that his body tried to offer him. He bit his tongue against the outburst of pain he felt coming on. He was a soldier. He had been trained on how to deal with pain. But it didn't mean that it hurt any less. John looked up into the eyes of his attacker but shut his eyes tight once more as he saw the man raise his fist again, ready to strike. He tensed, anticipating it.
"That's enough," a voice sounded in the distance. John looked up through blurred eyes of fatigue and pain. A shadow stood in the distance, masked by the ominous darkness of the room. John didn't need to see the man's face to know who it was.
"Moriarty," John said with as much venom in his voice as he could manage. But his voice only came out raspy and weak. Jim Moriarty laughed at this.
"Poor John. Poor, poor Johnny. So alone. So...broken." Moriarty laughed again, his voice squeaking in delight at the words he said. He stepped forward into the light, provided by one single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He continued.
"And how are we holding up? I hope you like the accommodations we have provided for you. I did try my hardest to get you the very best room." Moriarty giggled. He locked eyes with John and giggled once more, hoping to get some reaction from his prisoner. John did not respond. Moriarty sighed. Suddenly, his face dropped and the glow in his eyes faded. He walked forward slowly until he was almost directly in front of John's face. He sneered.
"Where's Sherlock?" he asked menacingly.
"Wh...what?" John responded weakly, somehow confused by the question. Wasn't Sherlock at home? With a deep guttural sound in his throat, Moriarty closed the distance between them and grabbed John's face with one hand, his fingers squeezing tightly around his jaw. John tensed up as Moriarty looked him straight in the eye.
"Where. Is. Sherlock?!" he questioned again, practically screaming in John's face, breaking up each word and adding a frightening force to each one. Did they not know that Sherlock was at home? John bit his tongue. He knew if he gave in, Sherlock would be in trouble and Moriarty would win. He braced himself for the pain he assumed would come for not complying. With a growl, Moriarty threw John's face away and turned around. He rubbed his jaw with his fingers and laughed darkly. John kept his eyes locked on him, not sure what he was planning next but suddenly without warning, Moriarty turned around quickly, flicked a long knife out of coat pocket and attacked John. John screamed loudly as Moriarty dragged his sharp blade deep in John's skin, leaving a long bloody laceration from his left shoulder down to his naval. John heaved and gasped, attempting to calm and distract himself from the immense pain so he could breathe. He shut his eyes tight as his whole body began to quiver. He dropped his head toward the ground as Moriarty turned on his heel and cleaned his knife with a black handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. With one last wipe, the blade was clean and Moriarty turned back toward John, holding the knife at his side while placing his handkerchief back in his pants pocket. He knitted his fingers together around the handle of the blade and stood calmly in front of John. He sighed.
"I really didn't want to do that, John. You know how it hurts me seeing you in pain, but see, you're just not cooperating like I need you too, and that really hurts my feelings." John continued to look at the ground. He was so weak, so tired... He heard Moriarty snap his fingers then, and more pain followed suit. The other man in the room grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head back sharply, forcing him to look directly into Moriarty's eyes. He spoke.
"John, don't think for even one second that I won't kill you, that I won't take this knife and plunge it straight into your heart." John caught his breath and held it in anticipation. "Now," Moriarty continued. "I will ask you once more. Where is Sherlock Holmes?"