HEY FRIENDS! This is the seventh chapter of 'Stockholmes Syndrome' and we are halfway through chapter eight as you read. There's a bit of fluffy Sebastian/Sherlock in here ((new OTP, I am so sorry)). But anyway

ENJOY

John bolted out of the facilities gates as fast as his legs would carry him. He didn't stop until he was around the corner and out of sight of anyone who could possibly be watching. He stood with his back flat against the wall, breathing heavily, expecting Sebastian to come charging around the corner and tear him apart. When the man never appeared his came out of hiding and sat down on the curb. What could he do? Where could he go? Who could he go to? Sherlock was still in danger and no doubt Jim wouldn't be that gentle when it came to punishment. He'd been in that position for a few minutes, gathering his thoughts, when his phone went off.

You might want to get over here. We've received something from Moriarty but its bad John. Really bad. ~MH

Mycroft? Worry and panic soon took over. He hailed a cab, told the cabbie where Mycroft lived and they were away.

The video had been on loop on his computer since it'd arrived. Impossible to turn off- evidently there was some sort of minor virus attached, as none of the firewalls registered a breach in his files. Watching Sherlock be beaten like that was sickening. Nothing at all like in Russia (which of course, Jim had felt the need to mention.) When his assistant- she'd chosen the name Katherine, for today- tells him that John has arrived, he composes himself, muting the video for a moment as John is led in, though he still shows the faintest expression of discomfort in the icy facade.

"Doctor Watson."

"I was just about to call you when you text me." John's tone was sharp and shaken. Mycroft didn't react straight away.

"I was told that we'd got something from Moriarty?"

Mycroft nodded and swallowed. Should he warn John before showing him to video? He decided against it, turned the laptop and turned on the sound. Instantly the colour drained from John's face. He tried to look away but his eyes were glued to the screen. Upon seeing John's reaction, Mycroft turned the laptop back around and muted it again.

"I told you it was bad." He said simply.

"He was being...Moriarty was..." John couldn't bring himself to say it. He stared at Mycroft before saying. "Well, what now?"

Mycroft sighs, steeping his fingers and looking at John.

"That, Doctor, is the problem. I can't very well order a strike- my men and Sherlock wouldn't survive it. Not with Moran there." He will willingly admit that Moran is the best gunman in the world. Unfortunately.

John couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"SO WE'RE JUST GOING TO LEAVE HIM THERE." His anger took over and he felt his voice rise. "You saw it for yourself Mycroft! There's no way he's going to survive much more of that sort of abuse. He's your brother for Christ sake!"

Mycroft doesn't flinch, instead he sighs heavily.

"Calm yourself, John. I have no intention of letting him stay there; if that is the kind of treatment he'll receive. However, I am unsure of what, exactly, we can do, which is why you were called."

John shifted his weight to his other foot.

"I don't quite understand what you think I can do about it. Moran would shoot me where I stood if I tried to go back."

Mycroft accepted this information and thought for a while.

"Not if you agree to make a deal with him."

"I still don't understand. What sort of deal could I possibly make?"

"It has come to my understanding that you walked right in on the two of them...um" He coughed, showing how uncomfortable he really was. John went red and nodded.

"If you were to access the facility and manage to work some kind of deal with Moriarty where you were allowed to be with Sherlock alone for a few hours. You may be able to get him out of there." Mycroft then sat back and allowed John to think.

John's jaw works as he thinks.

"I might be able to. If they even let me close enough to the building to ask to see him, which is unlikely at best. Of course, then there's the problem of getting him out. There's only one exit."

Mycroft purses his lips.

"I don't think so. Moriarty is rightfully overcautious- there will almost certainly be another way out of the building."

"Even so, it would no doubt be hidden and it'd take me a while to find. Not forgetting that after that-" John pointed to the laptop screen, which was still turned away from him. "Sherlock wouldn't be able to keep up."

Mycroft took this into account. "It's obvious he doesn't want Sherlock dead. Come here."

John, unsettled by the fact of being forced to watch again, made his way over to Mycroft's desk. Mycroft pointed to Sherlock's shoulder. The video had started again so John could see. There was a line of stitches along his collarbone.

"They must have been done by Moriarty. If we leave him for a few days, Jim'll fix him up and he should be able to run."

"And if he can't?"

"Then I don't know what else to suggest."

John watches the video sadly, jaw tightening. Sherlock actually looks to be enjoying it, up to a point, and the thought makes him sick. How could he let this happen?

"You want me to leave him there for a few more days? With... that?" He doesn't have a word vile enough for Moriarty in his vocabulary.

"Yes."

"...I suppose I have no choice."

Back at the facility, it'd been a few hours since Jim had left him alone. Sherlock's legs ached and the scars on his shoulder blades and upper arms stung. Jim had sent Moran in, the man's bulk ducking through the doorway into the bedroom. Sherlock gulped but didn't try and struggle. He wasn't sure about what Moran was going to do. Moran took a small knife out of his belt and sliced through the bonds that held Sherlock to the frame. He grabbed the detective by the hair and pulled him off the bed. It was harder now his hair was short but hurt a lot more. Probably why Jim did it.

Moran takes him firmly by one arm.

"Can you walk?" he asks gruffly, sounding generally irritated.

"Yes," Sherlock says. It's a bit of a toss-up, but as long as they're not going very far, he'll manage.

Sebastian nods and begins pulling him over to the bathroom through the sitting room, dragging him inside and letting him sit down on the edge of the tub, reaching around him to turn on the water. He waits for the water to get warm before turning back to Sherlock, helping him into the tub, though Sherlock hisses at the water against his wounds. The water immediately turns red, and Sebastian sighs and rinses the man off before plugging the drain, so he's not sitting in bloody water.

Sherlock stays there for a while, obviously not wanting to move anytime soon. Moran stood up and walked from the bathroom before emerging with some fresh, clean clothes. A shirt, trousers, and a black jacket. He puts them on the closed toilet seat before helping Sherlock carefully out of the bath.

He towels the detective off, oddly gentle, and helps Sherlock get dressed in the clothes before combing through his now-short hair, attempting to make it look a bit less spiky.

"Jim's a fucking terrible barber," he says after a moment, huffing in irritation and trimming it so that it's even.

"I don't think he was trying to be even. Why are you helping me anyway?" Sherlock was shocked by the gentleness of the larger man. Moran didn't answer straight away. He set down the scissors tilted his head. "Did Jim send you here?" Sherlock voice was going croaky and weak.

Moran nods slightly.

"We've got a dinner guest tonight," he says, gelling up the detective's hair a little to style it and slick it back.

"Used to him being rough," he says to the former question, after a moment. "That was nothing."

"He's done worse?" Sherlock was shocked that Jim could be so cruel. "To you?" He asked and immediately regretted it.

He didn't want to ask Sebastian too much about his relationship with Moriarty. He shifted uncomfortably, letting Sebastian's fingers work through his hair and a smile plucked at the corners of his mouth.

Sebastian pauses for a moment before continuing.

"Yes. When I was in India with the Army, there was an 'accident' with a bomb at a routine cleanup. My unit was killed. I was taken by a group of Iranians and hauled across the country for days. Knocked out and shipped in a crate like an animal back to England. Right to Jim. He wanted me to work for him. At first I refused. He spent 8 months 'convincing' me."

Sherlock sat and listened for a few moments. Not only had he underestimated Moran, he'd looked at him as an enemy and never bothered to see what lied behind the blond hair and blue eyes. For a second, a strange feeling began growing in his belly and soon he recognized the feeling. Guilt. But what did he have to be guilty about? He said nothing just waited to see if Sebastian would continue.

"He can be very creative," he continues. "I still lasted longer than anyone he's ever tried to persuade. Internationally. Just made him more determined, and eventually- obviously- it worked. Not with what he did to me, though."

Sherlock felt like he should ask what Jim did but decided against it. He took a deep breath and tried to stand up straight. The strain was apparently too much for his injured legs as he collapsed and landed in Moran's arms. He looked down at the detective and tilted his head.

"Judging by the fact that he got you to suck him off on your first day here, you shouldn't be that hard to break."

The sniper leaned down and planted a rough, hard kiss to Sherlock sore mouth.

Sherlock presses against him weakly, huffing in slight panic. Is Jim going to torture him like he apparently had with Sebastian? The thought makes him feel a bit ill.

Sensing Sherlock's panic, Sebastian lifted up his chin to look at his eyes.

"He won't hurt you as bad if you just give in to him." He paused. "I learnt that the hard way nut you don't have to."

And it was in that exact moment when Sherlock came to grips with his situation and started to assess a best plan. If he kept fighting and disobeying him then he was going to get more seriously injured. But if he gave in, if he did what Jim wanted then maybe he'd treat him a little better. While Sherlock was thinking, Sebastian pulled the detective into another sharp, aggressive kiss, as if to at least try and comfort him.

Sherlock doesn't try to pull away now, simply letting himself lean against the sniper as the blond's lips press to his. He's nicer, so far, than Jim, at the very least, and he has helped him.

He parts his lips for the kiss, gripping Sebastian's shirt tightly. It's not, perhaps, the best person to turn to for comfort, but seeing as how the person he'd rather be snogging is neither here, nor does he seem to care, Sebastian is an acceptable option. And he can't say the man isn't attractive.

Sebastian shuts his own eyes and allows Sherlock to deepen the kiss. His hands roamed through Sherlock's hair, messing up the style he'd previously made, then gripped his waist tightly.

"Surely Jim wouldn't want you doing...this." Sherlock sounded out of breath slightly and Sebastian wasn't sure if this was because the detective was in pain or if he was in a state of fear or arousal. Whatever the reason, it only made Sebastian want the man more.

Sebastian shrugs slightly.

"It'll be fine," he says before resuming the kiss, using his hands to pull Sherlock against him.

Sherlock doesn't protest, though he does make the suggestion that perhaps the couch would be a better location.

They move quickly, though it's really more Sebastian pulling the detective with him, and then the sniper is on the couch, Sherlock seated firmly in his lap.

Sherlock hissed in pain as pressure was put on his legs but moaned quietly as Sebastian pulled lightly on his hair. The sniper was so different to Moriarty; he might actually make life a bit more pleasant.

"Who's this special dinner guest of ours?" He panted into Sebastian's lips.

Sebastian pauses. Shit. They need to be downstairs. He gently pushes Sherlock off.

"Someone we shouldn't keep waiting. We can do this later," he assures, standing and fixing Sherlock's hair a bit. "Sorry," he says, wincing a little bit. Awkward situation when that happens.

Sherlock looks at the flustered sniper and smiles slightly. He does up his tie properly and attempts to straighten his shirt. Before he'd be been excited by the prospect of going with Sebastian but now he facing the aspect of meeting someone who he was bound to know, with his short hair and his bitemarks and bruises. Why else would Jim invite him to dine with them?

Seeing Sherlock panic again made Sebastian uneasy. He shifted towards him and held his hand firmly in his.

"You'll be fine. He won't ask you to do anything in front of him."

Sherlock was calmed by the new information and gave Sebastian's hand a quick squeeze before he was led to the door. Sebastian leads him down the hall and down stairs, through another short hallway before stopping in front of a pair of doors. He slips his hand from Sherlock's, giving him the faintest of smiles before opening the door.

The dining room is grandiose. Very expensive looking, and quite large. The first thing Sherlock notices, however is a very unhappy-looking Lestrade seated in the chair to the left of a grinning Jim.

He stops dead and feels the colour drain from his face. Sherlock suddenly becomes self conscious of all the bruises, scars and bitemarks that covered his thin frame.

Lestrade tore his eyes away from Jim and they settled on to the newcomers. He immediately recognised Sebastian but the person by his side, he couldn't remember seeing.

"Ah, Sherlock, Sebastian, how good of you to finally join us." Moriarty sounded suspicious and his eyes darted between Sherlock and Sebastian. The sniper avoided Jim's eyes and Jim guessed immediately but he didn't say anything. The humiliation would come later.

Lestrade's heart dropped into his stomach as he looked at Sherlock, just what had Jim done to him? He could see the dark bruises that ran down his neck and chest. There were red bitemarks and scars that still looked like they once ran deep. His beautiful dark curls were now styled back and had been hacked short. Sherlock, upon seeing Lestrade's reaction, shrunk a little bit inside himself.

Jim gestures them in, smiling pleasantly though there's definitely an edge to it.

"Come sit down, Sherly," he says, gesturing to the seat to the right of him, directly opposite Lestrade. Sebastian takes up his constant position by the door, nodding ever so slightly at Sherlock.

The detective slowly moves to take a seat, eyes glued to the table and face hot in shame. He can't look at Lestrade, wishes he could simply curl into himself to make himself invisible. Jim tsks.

"Come now, Sherlock, be polite," he chastises.

"Sherlock..." Lestrade whispers. His eyes ran across the face he once knew but was now a blur.

"Hi." He said back, not really wanting to make eye contact.

Sherlock tilted his head at Greg. He was just how he remembered him. Short dark hair that was greying at the edges, the long brown coat that hung around his knees and the olive skin that was slightly tanned. Moriarty looked between the two and sighed before standing up.

"I hope I've given you two enough to talk about, I do hate those awkward silences." He walked to the door and whispered something to Sebastian harshly before dragging him outside. Now Sherlock and Lestrade were alone.

Sherlock squirms a bit in his chair, not quite looking at Greg as his hands fiddle in his lap absently. He lowers his head, trying his best to keep the marks on his neck from view of the inspector.

"I'm sorry," he finally murmurs, almost inaudible. He feels sick.

His main objective was to twist his neck out of Greg's view but unfortunately it did the opposite. Instead of repelling the inspector, it drew his attention to his neck. He reached out gingerly with one hand and moved Sherlock's shirt collar to reveal the purple and red whelps underneath the skin. Sherlock saw what he was doing and pulled away. He looked at Greg's face. It was shock, horror and angers all mixed into one. But there was disappointment there as well. He was disappointed that Sherlock had just let it happen. The mere thought brought Sherlock to tears.

Sherlock's hands clench beneath the table as he gnaws on the inside of his cheek, fighting down tears. Lestrade was disappointed. In him. After everything, he was upset with Sherlock. He stands abruptly, uncaring of the criminal's presence outside the door. He can't look at Lestrade- can't look at anything but the floor.

"You know, for a while there, I thought you were different," he mutters, pushing open the door and brushing around Jim with hardly a glance at anyone as he makes for his room. He's not hungry anymore.

Sherlock trips up the stairs into his room, slamming it shut and leaning against the wall to catch his breath, still weak. He then starts moving furniture, pressing the dresser and chairs against the door as a makeshift barricade before retreating to the bathroom, curling up in the bathtub. Hopefully he has some time before anyone comes up. He lets the tears flow freely, now, burying his face in his knees as his legs curl against his chest.

Sebastian pales slightly at Jim's demeanor, instinctively trying to step out of the criminal's grip on his shirt. He has no doubt that Jim knows exactly what was going on- and judging by his expression, he doesn't like it.

Jim's hand curls around Sebastian's throat as a well-placed knee drives the air from the sniper's lungs. He knows Sebastian won't fight back- the one time he ever had; he hadn't been able to move at all for nearly 2 weeks.

"You should know better than to touch my things," he hisses, slamming the bottom of his palm into his chest with nearly enough force to break bone- the criminal is tiny in size, but deceptively strong.

Sebastian lifts up his head weakly to watch Sherlock run up the stairs. The detective stops for a while and mouths "I'm sorry." before turning down the corridor. Sebastian smiles slightly knowing that Jim wouldn't take his anger out on Sherlock. He was doing that now.

"Maybe it's him I should be beating. It must have been him who came onto you. Right, Sebby?" The pet name seemed a whole less friendly now. Sebastian didn't say anything at first but then figured out that Sherlock could get hurt.

"It wasn't him! It was me. It was me..." He tailed off. Why had Jim bothered to ask? If he knew that Sebastian had kissed Sherlock surely he'd known that he started it since Sherlock was almost too weak to stand up...

"I know." Jim's teeth grew into a dark smile. "I just wanted to hear it from you."

His fist flew out and made contact with Sebastian's jaw. The singer's head snapped sideways and his body crumbled to the floor under the impact. Sebastian knows better than to say a word further, simply lying there and taking kicks and punches, not even bothering to curl up, because he knows that just make's Jim's attacks more violent. When it finally stops, he gets into a kneeling position by the wall, bracing a hand against it as he struggles to catch his breath, and automatically begins cataloguing his injuries, still expecting further blows.

Still down in the dining room, a Greg watches Sherlock run out and hears his bedroom door shut before the sound of furniture scraping on wood. He stays in the dining room and just listens. He can hear grunts and yelps; he guessed that that was the reason Jim had dragged Moran outside. He heard another crash. Sebastian hitting the floor. Greg wondered if he should go help him. His hand hovered over the doorknob before he turned it and he stepped out into the hall. Jim was nowhere to be seen. Greg turned to his right and found Sebastian on the floor with one hand on the wall. He knelt down beside the sniper to try and analyse some of his injuries. He'd learnt a bit off John over the years but, to his surprise, Sebastian backed up trying to get away from the inspector. Greg tilted his head, confused. Then there was the click of a gun hammer and Jim strode back into the hall.

"I hate guns. Far too obvious and it makes a terrible mess on my walls. Nevertheless..."

Greg felt the cold metal press against his neck and he froze on the spot, not saying anything.

Sebastian raises his own hands slightly, trying to placate with Jim. "Sir, he did nothing. He sat there as you asked, and Sherlock left, so he came out to help me. You didn't give him any orders aside from sitting there with Sherlock. There's no reason to shoot him."

Greg straightens ever so slowly, not moving away from the gun and keeping his hands raised next to his head. Mentally calculating; the numbers are not in his favour.

He gulps as the criminal moves the gun away from his neck. He lets out a shaky breath but before he could bring another back in Jim pulls the trigger. Greg screwed his eyes shut half expecting to feel the bullet rip through his chest but instead it splintered the wood next to him. If it had been Sebastian behind the gun, Greg would be finished. He jumped as Jim fired again. But this time he didn't miss. The bullet tore through his knee and out the other side. Blood sprayed onto the wooden floor, then Greg felt the pain and he screamed like he never had before. Another bullet through his hip caused the pain to intensify and Jim's face was the last thing he saw before he blacked out.

I KNOW.

I KNOW.

I'M MEAN.

I feel the need to mention that Greg IS NOT DEAD. JUST KNOCKED OUT. DON'T PANIC.

Hope you enjoyed that ((in a heart-crushing kind of way)) C:

UNTIL THE NEXT TIME.