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A Bit Worse	By : VulpineBeesKnees Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2624 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
TW: Lots of gorey torture in the next two chapters

The TV in front of him snapped off as Sherlock walked out of the room. Up until now John had thought Irene to be dead, Mycroft had assured him. Of course he had said it would take Sherlock Holmes to fool him, maybe he had.
Moriarty and Mary had refused to give him any information as they drug in the television on one of those old gray carts, the sort they used in primary schools. Mary purposefully averted her eyes, perhaps she had been reprimanded for everything that had happened while John was drugged, he still couldn’t remember everything, and part of him was glad he didn’t.
Gears turned quickly, trying to comprehend what he had just seen. Irene was alive, or had been.. Had Sherlock saved her, or did Mycroft lie to John? Why would he lie about her death again, it wasn’t like that would serve any purpose. So Sherlock saved her, definitely, but now he had killed her. Well, intended on killing her would be the more apt term John supposed. Irene put the gun back to her head though, she was ready to die for this.
Why had he kissed her? A familiar pang of jealousy had ran through him as he’d watched Sherlock touch the woman so tenderly, so passionately. What he would have given to hear the conversation that had gone on between them. That bitter feeling had dissipated quickly when the fiction of the weapon pressed to her temple, his weapon, had become reality. Later, he would lament on the fact that Sherlock had lied to him, had known she was alive this entire time, how intimately he’d touched her. Another lie to add to the list, but currently he was trying to process what he had just seen.The real issue here was why had Sherlock saved her only to kill her, and why did Moriarty want John to see it.
Sherlock would have already worked it out.
John figured it was safe to assume Moriarty forced Sherlock to kill Irene. John wondered what all Sherlock had been forced to do in his name, the thought frightened him. Before, Moriarty had been set on ruining Sherlock’s reputation, that may still be his game.
John hung his head forward, cradling it in his arms. He was sitting against the back wall of the small dark room, his knees pulled up with his arms draped across him. He was only wearing dark jeans, his shirt had disappeared, John wasn’t sure when.
With the TV off the room was only lit by one pot light in the center of the room, but even that low light made his head throb painfully. Moriarty seemed to know exactly how little water and food John needed to stay conscious, and he was given exactly that, nothing more. He considered refusing of course, just letting himself wither away. It would have be almost too easy, but he knew it would affect Sherlock. Between the malnutrition, dehydration, and the hangover from everything that had been forcibly administered to him, John could barely even stand.
Finally Moriarty entered the room again. John didn’t bother to lift his head, he could hear heavy footfalls leading up to him. Moriarty was right in front of him when he crouched down on the balls of his feet, pulling John’s head up by his hair once more. John still glared up at the older man, but didn’t try and pull away, he’d learned it wouldn’t do him much good.
“I told you I own you.” His voice was level, no hint of anger or mirth. “I own you, and by owning you I own Sherlock.”
So that was his game, a bloody power play.
“I suggest you get some sleep doctor. Tomorrow I’m going to show you just how much control I have over both of you.” The corners of his mouth turned up in an evil grin before dropping John’s head and standing to turn and leave the room. “Ta Doctor Watson.” he laughed maniacally as he called over his shoulder, closing John in the dark room once more.
The night was long and painful. Memories haunted his dreams, pulling him from sleep into his real nightmare. By the time Moriarty opened the door again he had only managed an hour or two of sleep. John allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and drug out of the room. The hall outside was cemented all the way around with no windows, they must have been in some sort of underground bunker. He was led into another room, smaller than the one he had been in for the past three nights.
Moriarty let go of him suddenly, causing John to sway slightly. In front of him there was a table with a computer screen, facing away from the doorway, and one chair behind it. Jerking his head toward the chair Moriarty glared pointedly at John. He moved to sit down, what else could he do?
“Oh god.” he breathed the words out softly as he saw what was on the screen. Sherlock was in a similar looking room, somewhere underground or secured presumably by the concrete walls, and Mary was standing behind him. The detective had cuts on his face that had busted open again, blood running in little rivulets. His eye was still swollen from where Lestrade had punched him, and his lips were chapped, the split painful and bleeding. Both hands were bandaged around his palms, and his jacket was torn in places around the sleeves. Blood spotted his shirt and hands from where he’d held onto Irene’s body, only flecks of it left as if he’d tried to wash it away. The ginger hair on his head was tangled and windblown, looking as if it hadn’t seen a brush in days. The video John had been watching the night before had been shot from too far away,likely from a hidden camera. He hadn’t seen just how bad Sherlock was doing.
Blood was seeping through his jeans where he’d reopened the gunshot wound, his eyes had dark circles under them and his cheeks were gaunt. His face was set in a surly expression and Mary's nails were digging into his shoulder in a painful looking way, her nails digging into the socket.
However when Sherlock saw John, his face lit up a bit to see him physically unharmed, even if he did look a little bit groggy.
"John?" Sherlock winced at the raspiness of his own voice. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard to his ears, but he couldn't contain his worry for the doctor. Moriarty was on the screen as well and Sherlock found his scowl returning as quickly as it had left.
“Sher-” John started before Moriarty slunk behind him, one hand wrapping around to cover his mouth, his nails biting into John’s cheek.
“That’s enough chit chat don’t you think?” Moriarty sneered as he crouched so his head was resting just above John’s shoulder, staring at Sherlock through the webcam. “You see John, our beloved detective thought that he was going to skip my games and come rescue you. Tricking him was all too easy really. Of course she led him to a bunker, much like mine, but then, not so very like mine.” He chucked manically. “Not really anyways, because I wasn’t there, and neither were you Johnny.” His laughter became uncontrollable and his hand slipped from John’s mouth as he stood, his hands resting on the back of the chair. “Oh Sherlock, you’re getting awfully sloppy, are you getting tired?” He shook his head in mock disappointment before continuing. “The best part is, Mary doesn’t have to do anything to keep you there does she? You’re free to go whenever you like, but I promise if you do, you’ll never get John back. No one will.” The silence rang out with his final statement.
“Now boys.” The laughter had finally faded from his voice, only to be replaced by an eagerness that was even more frightening. “Are you ready to play?”
John swallowed hard, anticipation and fear buzzing through his mind. “You don’t have to do this Sherlock. He’s never gonna stop.” Leave me to die.
Sherlock shot John a look that clearly said over my dead body. Clearing his throat he steepled his fingers together, resting them on his lips as his eyes narrowed.
"You realize at some point this game has to come to a climax, every game and puzzle does. So far everything has been rather dull, for your level of intellect anyway..." For a moment Sherlock considered adding a sneered father at the end, but decided in no way, shape, or form did he want to claim this man as family.
"I rather wonder if you're losing your touch." He smirked a little, his face giving away nothing of the emotions roiling in his belly, "Alas carry on with it then..." He winced inwardly as nails were dug deeper into his shoulder.
"Watch your snarky mouth you tosser." Mary snarled.
"Oh do let the little courageous act drop. I can feel you shaking. You know the only thing keeping you alive right now is the fact that John is in danger and your life in my hands is not worth near as much as his..."
Mary blanched and removed her hand, taking a step back before her mask slid back into place. She frowned and crossed her arms, waiting instead for her fathers games to begin.
“Enough Mary. He’s there of his own free will, he can act how he likes, it will just affect Doctor Watson.” Moriarty smiled wickedly at Sherlock. “We’ll see how you feel about my games after this one.”
Moriarty then disappeared from the view of the camera to a small cabinet in the corner of the room. John couldn’t see what he was getting at, and didn’t dare move. He returned shortly with a scalpel, the sort used in surgeries. It would take barely any pressure to cut through skin, muscle, and connective tissues with that tool. John’s eyes widened when he saw it, but gave no other visible response. Sherlock didn’t miss the small reaction of course, but his own questions were soon answered when Moriarty stepped back into the frame.
He spun the tool between his fingers carelessly. “You’d do well to keep your snarky attitude to yourself if you don’t want your poor doctor here cut up… I do think he’ll have to pay for that remark though, very rude of you.” Moriarty chuckled as he pressed his palm over Johns throat, pushing his head back into the chair as he ran the blade across his skin just soft enough that it left a white trail down his cheek. Johns chest heaved dangerously as he tried not to struggle. “Here’s the real fun part though. Sherlock. You get to choose where I cut him. And if you don’t I’ll just keep cutting and cutting him up where ever I feel like it until I feel like stopping.... ” He traced the back of the scalpel down the side of John’s face, then down his throat as if to prove where he would start.
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as his brain quickly flicked through all of the major arteries to stay away from. How could he have gotten John into this? Because no matter what happened, no matter what Moriarty did to him, this was all Sherlock’s fault, and he would never forgive himself for it.
“The top of his right forearm.” His voice was low and dangerous. His doctor was left handed, and he wouldn’t risk permanently damaging his dominant hand.
Moriarty’s lips quirked to the side. “Dull.” John winced at how similar he sounded to Sherlock in that moment, but before he had a chance to fully register what was happening he felt the cold metal digging into his arm. He bit back a cry as he drew in a sharp breath. Moriarty kept John’s head drawn back so he couldn’t see, but he could feel as the blade was drawn from about two inches above his wrist up to the crook of his elbow. He could feel blood spilling out over his arm. The cut was deep, but not too deep. He could move his fingers, so no serious muscle damage at least.
John’s head fell forward as Moriarty finally released him, the bloody scalpel was dropped on the table in front of him. He no longer felt disconnected, the sharp pain emanating from his arm put all his senses on alert. Chancing a look down at his arm he saw it was split open cleanly. Having nothing to hold the deep cut closed with he grabbed his forearm with the opposite hand, putting as much pressure as he could manage through the pain. Sweat was quickly growing on his brow as he looked back at Sherlock through the camera. He grimaced painfully, trying to show that he was still okay.
Sherlock tried, damnit, he tried hard to hide the pain on his face and in his eyes, and for once he wasn’t sure if he succeeded. John looked at him once the cut was made, and he could tell there wouldn’t be any long lasting damage, a scar at the most. His brows drew together as he watched the blood bubbling over the edge of the laceration on his arm.
This was his fault. He was still treating this man like his son Sebastian. Everyone would do better if he didn’t underestimate this madman.
“Alright boys. No time to stall. The way this game works, I will ask you a question and you will answer. Now, John. Pick a number, one or two.” He ran his fingers through John’s hair harshly. He seemed disgusted by the sensation, only doing it to anger Sherlock.
John hesitated for a moment. He couldn’t be sure what his choice would cause. If the intensity of the next bit of torture was determined by this number he should choose one, right? But then it could also be two different acts altogether, Moriarty would probably be expecting John to pick one. He bit down on his bottom lip sharply before making his decision.
“Two.” John spoke softly, unsure of what he had just caused.
“Perfect choice doctor. Now Sherlock. I need two finger nails, who shall I be taking them from?” His smile grew horribly as he put the decision in Sherlock's hands. “I could always take one from each of you of course.”
“No, take them from me.” He laid his left hand on the table flat. He stared Moriarty down, not wanting him to think he was afraid. The torture of watching John get hurt was much worse than getting hurt himself. He’d learned to block out the pain however he could while he’d been weeding out the cohorts of Moriarty’s web.
John closed his eyes for a moment, wanting to argue, but also knowing full well it was useless. Just as it had been impossible for John to choose to cause harm to Sherlock, he knew there was no way Sherlock would choose for anymore harm to come to him. Opening his eyes John bit at his lip and nodded, trying to focus on Sherlock, rather than the arm throbbing painfully under his hand.
Mary moved to the cabinet in the corner and returned with a pair of pliers and some rope. Lifting his right arm, he took a mouthful of his leather coat as the insufferable woman tied his arm to the chair. He wasn’t about to give Moriarty the satisfaction of hearing him scream. It would be painful. He knew it would, and he just hoped that he wouldn’t pass out from the pain. His eyes met John’s as Mary finished tying his bonds, a leather belt on top of the rope just to make sure he didn’t squirm away, and he begged him with his eyes, to watch Sherlock’s face, his eyes, or better yet, not to watch at all. He did not want the doctor to see the nails being pulled from his flesh.
Suddenly, Mary clamped down on his wrist with her hand and the middle nail on his left hand was held by the pliers. “I’m going to enjoy this...” she said happily as she began to pull the nail back.
- 8
- 9
- 10
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A Bit Worse