Everything was hazy as Jim came to. His head was pounding and felt as if a nail had been hammered into his skull.
He'd choose waking up to Sherlock's hands in his hair over this any day.
Groaning loudly, Jim does his best to sit up and blink. It was absolutely black in the room, darkness suffocating the man who by this point was beginning to panic. Shifting, a rattling from towards his feet is brought to his attention. Blindly, Jim reaches down to find out what it was.
It quickly become clear that Jim is chained to the floor.
Shit. Not good. Not good. So very not good.
"Sherlock? Irene?" Jim asks the darkness, the panic he was feeling reflected clearly in his tone.
He's met with silence.
By this point, Jim's heart in hammering away, threatening to burst from his chest if he didn't find a way to calm himself. Bit difficult when you're chained up in a pitch blank room.
A whimper leaves Jim's mouth as he shuffles back, pressing himself against the wall. He may not be able to see but if someone, if something, attacked him from the front he'd have a shred of hope in fighting them off.
"Oh God.." Jim whispers to himself, tucking his legs close to his chest. He whimpers again. "I should be at a funfair..."
Had he not been scared for his life so severely, Jim would have laughed at that thought.
This was really not funny though. He couldn't see and was all alone in some cold room with his left ankle chained up. Not really the place for comedy.
Despite knowing it was useless, Jim pulls at his chain, praying that by some miracle the chain would just give up and release him.
"If there is a God, I'm sorry for all those songs I downloaded illegally... I know it's stealing. Please, God, I swear I will go to church more and all that, just get me out of this." Jim pauses. "Although, I'm still very much gay but seriously dude? This is the 21st century. Deal with it."
Great, Jim thinks, now he's talking to a deity that he doesn't really believe in and if said deity does exist then Jim is far from his favourite type of person.
But if God loves everyone surely he can look over the fact Jim likes cock, right?
"Right.. I'm going mental and I haven't even been here for five minutes."
With a sigh Jim stands, making sure to keep his back to the wall as he does. He was not made for this kind of thing. And he is definitely not ever going anywhere with Sherlock bloody Holmes ever again.
"If I live, I'm going to bloody kill him. And finally fucking slap him, too." Jim promises himself.
He should probably stop talking to himself now.
Right. He can't just stand here and hope to be saved like some damsel in distress. it's not like Sherlock was suddenly going to swoop in and save him. Jim was no Princess Peach and Sherlock sure as hell wasn't his Mario.
Jim allows himself one more whimper before he mans up, inhaling a large breath. Then, slowly, he starts to shift to the left, his hand feeling the wall in hopes of finding a light switch.
The wall was cold and smooth under Jim's fingertips. A sickening knot formed in his stomach as he realises that the wall he was feeling wasn't really the wall but shed loads of insulation that covered the walls.
The rattling was the chain as he shifts wasn't helping him to man up. He was seriously regretting comparing the other night to a horror movie. That was bloody Scooby-Doo compared to this.
Jim almost trips when the chain is straightened as far as possible, preventing Jim was going any further.
As much as Jim wanted to curl up and wail about just wanting to be at home with his computers, he forces himself to go the other way. He continues to feel the wall, hoping that if there was a light switch then it was on this side of the wall.
The sound of a match being stuck fills the room, a flame revealing half of a pale face to Jim. Those dark eyes cause him to freeze. A cigarette is lit and the man, who must be sitting in a chair going by his height, continues to silently watch Jim.
This was not good.
Jim watches the man, scared to blink. The smoker had shoulder length dirty hair. Matted too. He needed a hairbrush. And a razor. He reminded Jim of those homeless people that, despite just being poor souls, looked creepy as fuck and made you walk faster as you passed them.
The cigarette is slowly stretched out, being offered to Jim.
Why did bad guys always smoke? Did they think that blackening their lungs were scary?
Jim shakes his head. "No thanks. Don't smoke. Lung cancer runs in the family, you see. Dad's had it a few times. Uncle George died because of it. Uncle Owen's the only one who's not taken any issues with his lungs. Who'd want them all black, anyway, right? Plus it makes teeth and fingers yellow, I mean that's just--"
"Shut the fuck up," A gruff voice cuts him off.
Jim shuts up.
"Nice speech to God, faggot," The man smirks, only half of the smirk being revealed to Jim.
Jim flinches at the last word.
"Thanks. Mummy always told me to go into politics," Jim murmurs.
"You're being pretty cocky for a guy chained up."
"Ah, well. I'm just hoping Mario is going to pop up and jump on your head before taking me back to my castle."
The man frowns, obviously having no idea what Jim was going on about. Pity fills Jim. The poor man didn't know who Mario was. Jesus, what did he do as a child?
The pity quickly fades when Jim realises that this person was likely to become the man that murdered Jim Moriarty in his creepy sound proof (thanks to all the insulation on the walls) room where he chains people up.
Silence drags on for some time as puff after puff of the cigarette is taken.
Would this be a bad time for Jim to panic over second hand smoke? Probably.
"So... I'm probably late for dinner. Mind if I go home early?" Jim asks, tilting his head to the side.
Okay, so Jim's survival skills sucked worse than his explanation skills. Hell, his survival skills may even suck as much Sherlock's personality does.
No. Nothing sucks quite that badly.
Definitely slapping him.
"Oh, yeah. 'Course. I'll just let you go now so you can tell your little detective friend where I am?" His kidnapper answers, sarcasm more than evident in his tone.
"Where is Sherlock?" Jim wonders.
He takes another drag of his cigarette before answers. "No longer with us, shall we say?"
"He's dead?" Jim frowns, not convinced.
He gets a frown in return. Jim fears his lack of reaction may just get him killed.
Was he meant to be scared by this more than fumbling around in the dark without a clue what was happened? Because, the latter was certainly scarier. At least now, he had company.
Jim makes a mental note to get himself a CAT scan if he lives through this.
"Of course he's dead. Couldn't have him alive, could we?"
"Well, considering I'm still alive, I'm sure that you've kept Sherlock alive too"
The man hums, breathing out smoke. "Why's that?"
Jim sighs, shifting on his feet and causing his chain to rattle. Jim was calming down more now he saw how sickeningly cliché this set up was.
"I'm less important than him in this whole thing. He's the one capable off taking down whatever you're doing here. I'm expendable so if you're keeping me, a mere pawn in this game, alive, then you've kept the Queen alive too. The Queen's the one who really want to work on in this checkered battle field," Jim shrugs.
Going by the look on his captor's face, Jim's analogies were confusing him rather than helping to get the point across.
"I don't know what the fuck you just said, but you're wrong."
"Nope," Jim disagrees.
"What?"
Oh God, this guy was dense.
"Sherlock's clearly said nothing so you've come to try and get information from me. Someone's probably threatening to cut Sherlock's dick off right now."
The man chuckles. "You watch too many movies, mate."
"Okay, that's a fair point actually."
Silence again.
This wasn't how the movies went. Unless there was a their party that the kidnapper was waiting for.
Typically, the moment that thought crosses Jim's mind, a door in opened in the left hand corner across from Jim, revealing concrete stairs and half the room. A high heeled foot lowers to the first step, revealing the slender ankles of a woman.
The man who'd been sitting before stands, facing the stairs and standing as straight as a pole.
Jim glances around for something he can use as a weapon. Nothing.
The black high heel makes a loud clicking sound as another step is descend.
His heart rate picks up again, the dramatic and slow entrance of this woman affecting him like it did all those hostages in movies.
Jim's only hope was that his computers were looked after once he was dead.