Sherlock Holmes was bored yet again. He was sitting in his comfy chair, unaware that his buttons were straining under the position he was in. His head was thrown back while his legs were slung over one of the arms. "Jawn, I'm bored." He said, his eyes shut in frustration.

Silence echoed around the apartment, but Sherlock didn't notice. He continued with his whining. "Jawn, play Cluedo with me." More silence. "Jawn, phone Lestrade." Still nothing. "Ask him if there's a case for us." The dust settled on Sherlock's skull. "Check the blog for a case!" A car passed by the window.

"John?" Sherlock lifted up his head, noticing for the first time, that John Watson was actually absent.

John first went to see Harry, in a small cafe down the street. Then he went to the grocery store to pick up some eggs and milk. On his way home, Anthea picked him up so Mycroft could have a little, unimportant, chat with him. When that was finished, she dropped him off where she picked him up. Only... he never got home.

It was probably around dawn when the blindfold was removed from his eyes. He found himself chained into a standing position, his legs and arms so spread apart that there was no way he could move them. His muscles ached. The first thing he saw was the snake-like look on Moriarty's face. The smirk that rested on his lips made one thing obvious to John. He wasn't getting away as easily as last time.

He glared, but didn't struggle. That would only make him weaker, and there was no means for escape. Moriarty was grinning widely as he stepped closer to John. "Good evening, Doctor. Well, bad evening for you, I suppose."

"What do you want, Moriarty?" John asked. He knew why he was here. Moriarty wanted to hurt him, to hurt Sherlock.

The grin on Moriarty's face grew just a little more. "You." He crooned.

It took John a minute to even realized what Moriarty was saying. "I- What?" The shock on his face was discernible.

"I said, I want you. Sherlock Holmes', human 'pet.'" John's face only grew in shock. He could almost hear Sherlock making some snide remark about how stupid he looked.

His voice, as calm as it would be if he were talking on the phone with his sister, spoke up a second later. "You want me. For what, exactly?" His eyebrow was raised. His face didn't give away his thoughts of escape. His thoughts of, 'What would Sherlock do?'

"Oh, whatever it is you do with Sherlock. I want to see why he's so interested in you."

John raised his eyebrow, almost leaning back on the chains holding him up. "What, exactly, do you think we do?" He still looked calm, though slightly perturbed.

Moriarty paused and leaned on the desk, eyeing John. "Sex." He said nonchalantly.

John sputtered and stared at Moriarty for a moment. "I'm not- Wait, you're going to- What!" He was clearly at a loss for words. Everyone seemed to think that John and Sherlock were a couple, and now even Sherlock's archnemesis thought they were having intercourse. He couldn't stop himself from saying the next words. Later, he blamed Sherlock for making him say it, somehow, though they were surely miles and miles away. "You're really starting to sound like Anderson, Jim. Sherlock and I don't have sex."

The anger that pulsed on Moriarty's face was gone before it came, but John saw it. "Sebastian. Please bring my knife." A man in a tuxedo came up and gave Moriarty a simple kitchen knife, which he wrapped around his hands. The man left, and Moriarty spoke again. "I do hate to be insulted by someone so ordinary. I don't care if you are Sherlock's human." He walked behind John and ran it delicately down his jumper sweater.

John tried to turn back to look at Moriarty, but the bindings were too tight. "What are you-" He cried out in pain, cutting off his sentence. Moriarty had slashed down with the blade, tearing both John's sweater and his back. It had been quite some time since he'd actually been hurt.

The man with the knife smirked and ran his fingers in John's blood for a moment before he began to slowly yet eagerly cut at his back. He would laugh on occasion, especially as he saw the pile of John's skin piling up at his feet.

John continued to cry out in pain. Tears were filling up in his eyes. It hurt so much, but he couldn't get away. He tried struggling, but that only made it worse. He couldn't get out, and his only thoughts were, "Oh god, kill me now."

As the skin piled up, the laughs grew louder, and John began to mutter under his breath. His eyes were shut and his fists were clenched. He was muttering something incoherently, but Moriarty knew what he was saying. "Sherlock, save me." Over and over again, those words repeated, and Moriarty laughed louder.

When he was finished, John was reduced to pathetic sobs, the occasional "Sherlock!" and was in a bloody mess. He moved around to the front, leaving the knife in the pile of John's skin. He brought a bloody finger up to his lip and licked it. "Since it's apparent that you and Sherlock aren't doing anything, I'll leave you like this. Sebastian, prepare the car."

In mere moments, John Watson fainted from loss of blood.

He woke up in pain. He curled into a tight little ball, writhing in pain. Vaguely, he noticed that he was on a soft bed, but that didn't process in his head. He back hurt too much. He could hear voices vaguely over his moans of pain. "What does it say?"

He didn't stop his moaning, but his mind did stop. Mrs. Hudson?

"Who did this?"


"Sherlock? What happened. I came when you texted me, but you've just been staring at him for hours."

"Why can't we go to that side?"

Sherlock was standing behind John, a clear look of pain in his eyes. He was staring at the man's back, watching while the now clean, yet red skin stretched out while he curled into a ball of pain. He looked at the message that Moriarty left him, but he didn't say anything.

He looked up at Lestrade and Mrs Hudson just as Mycroft walked through the door. "Tell us what happened." The eldest Holmes said, a look of business on his face.

Sherlock started. "John was gone. I didn't know where, so I started looking for him. I texted his phone. He didn't respond. I tried calling him. He didn't respond. He wasn't with you, because you had just called. I went out to look for him. I traced his phone to a trashcan outside of a warehouse. I searched the entire vicinity for him. He wasn't there. I thought, if I just returned home, he would be there." He took a deep, shaky breath and continued. "He was here. On my bed. Except bloodier, and laying on his stomach. The message was left on his back."

He stepped back, finally allowing Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade to see what Moriarty carved into John's back. Mrs. Hudson gasped and covered her face with her hand. Lestrade strode into the bathroom to vomit, and Mycroft looked at John with horror on his face.

Carved deeply into John's back were the letters, "I O U."