Please read the description first!
John paced back and forth in front of Lestrade's desk, palms sweaty and clasped together behind his back, his eyes tired and worried. “Three days,” he tried to say calmly, his voice slightly raised despite his efforts. “He's been gone for three days.”
Lestrade nodded, biting his lip a bit. “We're looking.” Ironic how the very man who could help them find this missing person, happened to be the one missing.
“He didn't even tell me he was working on the case!” John shouted, hitting Lestrade's desk with a shaky fist. “I swear to god if I ever see that man again, I'll choke him myself!”
Lestrade swallowed, “John...”
John recounted the events in his head from last Thursday... the second week in a row without a case.
John opened the apartment door to a grim looking Sherlock. But then again, he always did look grim. Nothing was different from when he left aside from Sherlock's cellphone now sitting on the end table next to him. It was such a minute detail John had overlooked it at the time.
“Have you even moved since I got back? Seriously, how can you just loaf around all day?” John sighed, setting down his bag from work, and walking to the kitchen.
Sherlock grumbled something about thinking in reply to his question. Typical.
“Well you could at least do something around here other than make huge messes with body parts and bags of pig eyes. For instance, I dunno, fetching the milk?”
Suddenly Sherlock stood, “Fine, yes. I'll fetch the milk,” he said, grabbing his coat and slipping his phone into his pocket.
John looked at him from the kitchen, surprised, “Really? You're going to fetch the milk?”
“Yes, I'll be back shortly.” He said as he tied his scarf and ducked out the door.
“Well- okay.” John blinked, and with that the man was gone.
If he'd known that that would be the last time he'd see that bastard he would have stopped him at the door with brute force if need be. It killed him to think about it.
“John, I think it'd be best if you went home and got some rest... Let us handle it.” Lestrade gazed sadly at the blond man.
“Let the experts handle it? Are you kidding! It took Sherlock for you to solve any of your stupid cases, how am I-” he was cut off by a ring from his pocket. His eyes lit up when he saw the signature '-SH' at the end of the text. Unfortunately as he read the text his happiness quickly faded like a flame on the wick of a candle.
'Ever coming to get your sleeping beauty?' it read, and as he scrolled he saw the picture that widened his eyes. It was Sherlock's face, he was unconscious, head resting on some sort of concrete floor and his nose bleeding.
He nearly dropped the phone but Anderson who was on his way into the room caught it, “What's this-” he saw the picture and his face paled as he handed the phone to Lestrade. Even Anderson knew to keep his mouth shut as he excused himself from the room quickly.
“We're going to trace this,” Lestrade said as he stood up.
John nodded, following.
Meanwhile the man of discussion lie on the floor of some sort of basement room, silently glaring up at his captor. His nose was covered in dried blood from when he'd first gotten there and his wrists, as well as ankles bound together behind his back.
“Well, well, well. Still no help for Sherlock Holmes. If you'd just answer my questions this would go so much quicker, trust me.” Moriarty leaned over the man, giving him a deadpan look, “Just tell me where it is, and we could both be much happier people.”
“Who said I wasn't perfectly happy down here on my comfortable floor?” Sherlock asked, looking up at Moriarty.
“Ha! Always the joker. I have been offered a considerable gain if I can get your lips loose and a few snarky jokes aren't going to dissuade me.” he smiled cooly. “So,” he said, picking up a riding crop from a table against the wall and kneeling over Sherlock, a leg on either side of the tall man's body. “Why don't you tell me, and we won't play rough?”
Sherlock smiled back, a painfully confident smile. “I haven't any idea what you're talking about.” His face was jerked up to face Moriarty directly who raised the crop and struck Sherlock's cheek with a satisfying 'shleck' noise as it ripped open skin.
“Wrong answer.” he laughed, “Oooh that felt good. Go on now though, if you want to have a face by the end of this, do tell.”
“No idea,” Sherlock replied, pain stinging his cheek. Another stabbing feeling cut across his nose as Moriarty continued to laugh above him, “Sher, oh, you lovely bastard. You're doing this for me, aren't ya? Because you know how much I like watching your little face wrinkle up each time I get to hit you. So considerate.” he feigned a sweet smile before his face turned grim once more. “Don't make me disembowel you instead. No one wins when I have to get my hands all dirty.”
Sherlock coughed a bit as he was struck again, blood dripping from his lips as he bared his teeth at Moriarty's angry face. “Why are you so confident you can make me talk?”
“Because I can do very bad things to people very close to you,” Sherlock’s face became more serious, looking up at Moriarty. “Oh, yes. I went there,” Moriarty smirked, patting Sherlock’s bloody cheek. “Don’t take me for granted, Sher,” he pushed himself up to his feet. “But first let’s have fun.” he said, pushing Sherlock onto his back with his foot. The stoic man only stared up at Moriarty. He showed no sign of panic as the sound of Moriarty’s zipper opening sliced through the air. “Why, you’ve gone quiet Sherlock, why would that be?” he laughed a bit, untying Sherlock’s ankles and pulling down his trousers. “Nice underwear,” he added, licking his teeth as he leaned down, pulling them down with his teeth.
Sherlock was frozen, the feeling in his chest reminded him of the same feeling he’d encountered in Baskerville. The main difference being that this was completely real. He kicked slightly but Moriarty quickly pushed his leg back down against the floor with one hand.
“G-get off,” he stammered, trying to keep strength in his voice.
“Scared?” Moriarty asked as he pulled his own member from his pants, stroking it a bit. “You know, I heard that you’re still a virgin… you are, aren’t you?” Moriarty seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, “Maybe I should use a lubricant, but then again,” he leaned down breath hot against Sherlock’s neck, “Maybe not, this is an interrogation after all.”
“John,” Mrs. Hudson frowned as she walked into the flat, seeing the man with his face in his hands again, “How about a nice cuppa, we both know Sherlock can take care of himself,” she said as she handed the man a warm cup filled with tea.
“...” John was silent for a few moments before shaking his head, “No, he can’t Mrs. Hudson… We both know that.”
Mrs. Hudson let out a deep sigh as she sat next to the disgruntled man, “I know dear, I was only trying to get your spirits up,” she patted his shoulder.
“I feel so ridiculously useless, without him I don’t even know where to start… the police don’t even know where to start…” he shook his head. Mrs. Hudson didn’t know what to say to that, other than standing up, and putting a hand on his shoulder, “Everything will turn out deary,”
“I hope you’re right about that.” he responded quietly. He stood slowly from the couch. His leg was starting to hurt again, but he needed to go back down to the police station and check in with Lestrade.
Several days passed and still the result remained the same, no trace of Sherlock. John lie in bed, his gaze focused upon nothing, suddenly a loud ringing filled the otherwise silent room. John would have ignored the call until he saw the number. Sherlock. He grabbed it off his dresser sitting up, “H-hello? Sherlock!?”
There was the sound of wet coughing from the otherside, “Get M-Mycroft-”
John’s eyes were wide, “Get him? What Sherlock?!”
“John,” he coughed from the other side of the line, “Mycroft is in danger, get him to your place!” Sherlock shouted, voice breaking into coughs again, “Don’t worry ab-” a crunch was the last thing he heard as the phone beeped and read “connection lost” across the screen. John clutched the phone shakily before taking a deep breath and phoning Mycroft.
“What is it John, I’m a little busy at the moment-”
“Sherlock said you’re in danger, you need to come over here now.”
“You thought that was clever,” Moriarty growled like a predator, “But you realize I could just blow up all of Baker Street next.”
“But you won’t.” Sherlock groaned a little, every inch of his body aching, but a killer headache now added to the list, along with a large red footprint across his bleeding forehead.
“Oh, and just why won’t I?” Moriarty inquired, leaning over Sherlock, giving the battered man a playful kick in the side.
“Because you enjoy having me captive far too much,” he said grimly, feeling much more like a broken man than he had at the start of all this.
A sick grin spread across Moriarty’s face, “Right-O Sher, you’re absolutely right. Unfortunately I still have financial obligations to fulfil still.” He grabbed the tall man by the hair, dragging him across the room to the mattress in the darker corner. Sherlock winced, eyes shut tightly as he was pulled and pushed onto the mattress face down.
“Fuck,” he choked, pain flooding his skull making it impossible to think as Moriarty spread his legs apart forcefully.
“That is exactly what I’m going to, Sher.” Moriarty chuckled, lining his erect member up with Sherlock’s entrance. “Fuck and fuck, and fuck!” he shouted as he thrust inside Sherlock, holding his hips tightly. Sherlock grunted, fists clenched tightly behind his back where they were still tied.
“We were able to trace that phone call thanks to some help from Mycroft’s men, and we’ve got a location.” Lestrade said, grabbing his coat. “We’re sending some men over now,”
John followed him, “I’m coming with.” he stated firmly, new hope dancing in his chest, making his heart race.
“If you were any other man John, I’d try to stop you, but I won’t. Here,” he said, pulling out a gun from one of it’s holsters, “Take this just in case.”
John nodded, “Right.”
John’s stomach was sick with anticipation on the car ride over. The place looked to be an abandoned factory on the outskirts of Park Royale, the industrial district of London. Men in uniform around him kicked open the doors, proceeding inside with caution and began to search the place. John looked around noticing a short door underneath a staircase, usually for maintenance equipment or the way down to the basement. He opened it, slipping inside, looking down the dark staircase that led into the basement. He froze when he heard a grunt, pained and muffled. He was quiet as he crept down the stairs. It took his eyes several moments to adjust to the darkness as he glanced around. Suddenly he saw in the corner of the basement a sight that both sickened and disturbed him.
Moriarty looked over, directly at John as he thrust into Sherlock, a smirk spreading across his face, not visible in the dark. “Why hello Dr. Watson, care to joi-” he was interrupted as a bullet went off , narrowly missing his head, “Pity, I’d take that as a no,” he said, rushing to get off of the detective and zip up his pants.
“What the hell did you do to him?!” John barked, shakily shooting again, missing once more.
“Nothing that doesn’t require medical treatment,” he said, disappearing into the blackness, Watson shot as he ran but none of the shots hit their target as the man slipped out of some door hidden in dark.
Footsteps plagued the steps as Lestrade ran down the stairs with his men and Mycroft following. Their torches lit up the basement, “John are you alright I heard shot down here- jesus christ!” he ran down as soon as he saw Sherlock, half naked, trembling and tied up. He ran to the man, telling a few more of his men to get the stretched and call an ambulance. John barely moved at all, the people passing him him in a blur till they stood outside.
Sherlock sat in the back of the ambulance, a ruddy orangish blanket draped around his shoulders that he clutched tightly, staring blankly ahead as John approached him. “John I-”
A swift slap was delivered to his already bleeding face, “You lied Sherlock! You can’t do that to me- you can’t!” John’s voice cracked as he looked at Sherlock desperately, eyes filled with tears, “I swear to god- if you- if you ever pull that again I won’t be waiting for you!”
Sherlock looked up at him with his glassy weary eyes, “I’m sorry, John.” his voice was quiet and broken.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it!”
Sherlock had been home for a week now, after a few night’s stay at St. Bartholomew's. John hadn’t spoken to him much, nor tended to him all that much, not that he blamed John. Normal people often got upset over things like this. Unfortunately he’d be lying if he said it didn’t bother him. It did. Immensely in fact.
He lie in bed, stubbornly, not moving other than for necessities or when Mrs. Hudson brought up a hot cup of tea. Sherlock closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh as sleep took him again. He’d been drifting in and out of sleep more often than usual due to the nightmares he’d been having. He hated them. Nightmares, how childish. Even Mycroft was now treating him more childlike than ever, as was everyone. They all had been walking on eggshells around him.
John sat in his chair, reading the paper, flipping through it silently, nothing in particular catching his eye. He heard a soft sound from the other room where Sherlock slept.
The pitch of Sherlock’s voice increased and he began shouting from his room, “John! John- John!” John’s eyes widened and he dropped the paper rushing to the bedroom. He found Sherlock tossing in his bed. John’s expression softened as he sat on the side of his bed. He pulled the still sleeping and shouting Sherlock up gently into his arms from behind and hugged him.
“Shhh, Sherlock, you’re fine, I’m right here,” he frowned running a hand through the man’s curly brown hair. “Shhh…” The man quieted down, mumbling still a little before he fell silent again. John looked at Sherlock sadly. He’d been harboring so much trauma and John had selfishly been too focused on his own grudge to notice. It felt more like a lover’s dispute in a soap opera than two best friends childishly ignoring one another.
He rested Sherlock back down into the bed, laying beside him on his side, studying the sleeping genius’s face. “You’re so stupid sometimes.” he smiled a little.
When dawn came Sherlock woke to find John already awake, gazing at him. John blushed a little, starting to sit up, “A-ah, sorry I must look like a creep, but you were having a nightmare and I- well I just thought you might sleep better if-”
Sherlock pulled him back down on the bed, hugging him tightly, “I’m sorry John, I really am.” he mumbled into John’s downy blond hair.
“I know you are, I am too,” John smiled a little, patting Sherlock’s back. Finally things could start getting back to normal.