Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock. Warning for violence and language and general darkness of this fic. Rating will probably go up.
It's completely dark in the room, I'm talking thick-as-pitch––tar, actually. They don't really use pitch anymore, do they?
The blackness is sliced by a single blade of white, harsh light. It's startlingly bright, especially against all the darkness. But he can't see it, not yet, anyway. He's still asleep. Well, sleep is too kind of a word; he's unconscious. Chained to a chair in the middle of that cylinder of light, his head lolls against his chest. The splatter of red is almost glowing against his porcelain skin, it looks like fluorescent paint.
My fingers itch and I want to touch him. I want to trace the hollows of his cheekbones, I want to feel his neck and collar bone and run my fingers through his blood-caked hair. I almost do. I almost run to the center of the room while he's still gone and do with him as I please, feel his pulse flutter under my skin.
I don't, of course. I do have some self control.
A twinge of annoyance-not-concern, he's been out for a while. I mean it's not like I gave him anything too bad, and I thought he was more resistant, anyway. Maybe I gave him too much.
Seb says I get overzealous sometimes.
Seb doesn't like this. He says it's too dangerous, we might get caught. I tell him he needs to live on the edge, take a few risks. Seb flicks the ashes off his cigarette.
I think he's just jealous.
I tell him he can join in, but I don't mean it.
He just gets this look on his face and sulks off to clean his gun or whatever.
I'm just about to go check if he's still breathing when he comes to with shuddering breath. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
He's retching now, not very pretty, no sir. He gasps and gags and vomits all over the floor, oh, what a mess.
He coughs and clears his throat and slumps forward, panting. It's a good thing I didn't duct tape his pretty little lips, or I'm sure he would have choked. Would have been a very unattractive corpse.
I have him absolutely terrified. He picks his head up, looking around wildly, but oh, there's nothing to see but the black strip across your eyes. He inhales and gags again and tries to regain himself. I can almost see the gears turning in that fragile skull of his as his thinks.
This is bliss. Watching him like this. He is at my mercy and for once, I can observe unobstructed.
How does it feel to be scrutinized, Sherlock? To be probed and picked at like a piece of meat, like a thing, not a person.
The metal chair scrapes a few centimeters across the floor, he tries to get traction. The tendons on his neck are metal cables and I want to reach through the glass and tear them out. Weave them into a rope and bind his hands, weave them into a cord and fit them with jewels.
"Hello?" he calls out, voice all rasps and sharp corners. "What do you want?"
"Who are you?"
I think you know the answer to that one, Sherlock.
Maybe he doesn't, though. He probably thinks that, no, I wouldn't, it's too risky, like Seb thought, but that's the one thing I've got on both of them.
It's fine, though. He'll come to the conclusion eventually.
The sweat-sheen on his chest gleams under the light, but goosebumps cover his upper arm. It's a few hours later, now. He hasn't said much, probably waiting for his snatchers to make the first move.
Seb is at my side. His arms are folded across his chest and the lines on his face spell out his entire thoughts. This is him? they say. This is the guy?
Oh, come off it, Seb; we can't all look picture-perfect strapped to a chair surrounded by our own stomach contents.
I nod to him and he flips a few switches in an aluminum box.
Shouts fill the air.
"John?" Oh, god in heaven. His voice is a choked gasp of disbelief and pure, unadulterated horror.
"Sherlock––" the line cuts but he's still wailing John, John! like a child lost at the mall.
Thank you, John Watson, for letting me steal your voice.
"What do you want?" he shouts. "Let John go!" Desperation creeps into his voice. I didn't expect him to crack this soon.
Seb watches in silence, my Knight of Many Words. After Sherlock quiets down, he turns to me, an eyebrow arched, waiting for orders.
He watches as I blow on the glass in front of us, tracing a heart in the fog. He frowns, head tilted to the side.
He doesn't scream. Surprisingly pleased. This means we'll get to have fun for longer.
He's not broken yet.
Seb comes back with news. They're looking for him. Good, I think, it's been long enough.
He knocked his chair over, today. Something within him must have been broken, invigorating, with that burst of energy.
It doesn't do much good; my Seb is like a boy scout with those knots, but he does manages to drag down the blindfold.
When he's unconscious I send my Knight out to right him. It's risky. He doesn't wake up.
I'm all for risks.
He's boring, lately. He's tugged a bit at his restraints, tragically confused at how he managed to get in an upright position. Amusing, really, to see the great Sherlock Holmes so completely lost.
The need to touch him becomes unbearable. I need to feel him break under my fingers.
I can't take it anymore.
I find myself leaving the observation room from where I have watched him so many hours these last three days––or has it been four?
I open the door, and he opens his eyes. Bingo.
But he cannot see me, of course. I stand, fleeting, just beyond the circle of light. But he knows I'm there. He wriggles against his chair, eyes narrow. He does not open his mouth. He does not call out. Not yet.
This staring contest is boring.
Finally, "What do you want from me."
His voice is a low growl.
His question makes me want to laugh, to double over until tears streak down my face and I cease to breathe.
Instead my face shatters with a grin and I step into the edge of the halo. His cracked crystal eyes widen and his fear is my absolute rapture.
"I want you, Sherlock.
A/N: Just my sick little Moriarty/Sherlock kink, ha. I dunno if I should continue this. Feedback is appreciated.
Thank you for reading.