Deduce Me

Chapter Thirty-Five: Torture

(A/N: Err... I guess I have to say "Trigger Warning," don't I?)

Sherlock

I blinked my eyes open carefully. My whole body was stiff— bruised. I lifted my head gingerly; everything was swimming. I was facing a blank grey wall. I heard movement beside me, but it was difficult to turn my head without a searing flash of pain. I turned my head anyway, and gasped at what I saw.

"John!" I croaked out. He looked worse than I felt. He was slumped over in his chair, unconcious and bleeding from his nose. I could see bruises forming over his cheekbone, and his eye was already swelling. And that was just what I could see. I tried to reach for him, but my limbs seemed to be handcuffed to my chair.

Tears started to form in my eyes, and before I could do anything, they were ready to spill over. I couldn't even reach up to wipe them away, because my hands were bloody handcuffed to the fucking chair. "John??"

He stirred. Just barely, but I saw him twitch. He's alive! "John? John, can you hear me? Wake up. You need to wake up, John, ple--" a door swung open somewhere behind me.

"Sh... Sherlock?" John mumbled, lifting his head a little.

"John!" I heard footsteps behind me, coming ever closer. "John, don't move, I—" Someone punched me across the jaw. I spat out a mouthful of blood.

The man—the same man who kidnapped us, in fact— started dragging John across the floor and through whatever door he had come in. "No! NO!!!" I tried once again to slip off my handcuffs, but to no avail. They were simply too tight and too strong.

I heard the door open again behind me. This time though, it was a different set of footsteps. This person was smaller, and had a lighter step. They paused a few feet from me. I couldn't turn around to look at whoever it was. "Who are you?!" I demanded.

A lighthearted chuckle. Then the footsteps started again. "I gave you my number... I thought you might call." The person walked around me until they were in view. The kid was maybe only a few years older than me. He spoke in a lilting Irish accent, which surprised me, I have to admit. "Jim Moriarty," he claimed with another chuckle. "Hi!"

I didn't answer.

"Jim?" he attempted to clarify, as if I didn't already know who he was. "Jim from the hospital? Hmm. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose, that was rather the point."

He was smiling like a madman. But then I suppose, he is a madman. This was the man who strapped those people to bombs. This was the man who organized other people's crimes. This was Moriarty, the man who kidnapped John and I and beat us to pulps. I waited for him to take another hit.

"Oh, don't be silly, I'm not the one doing the torturing!" He smiled playfully. "I don't like getting my hands dirty." He looked past me, but I couldn't tell what he was looking at. It made him smile, so it couldn't be good. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going in out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see." Then he looked down at me, as if he was suddenly realizing the connection. "Like you!"

This was a game of cat and mouse. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let him win. So I'll play his little game, if only for a little while. "Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?" He smiled at my reference to that old tv show Jim'll Fix It. "Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to North America?"

"Just so." He started to circle me slowly.

Despite my situation, I couldn't help but be a little impressed. "Consulting criminal. Brilliant..."