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Sherlock had been kidnapped by John Watson after the fall rather than dying. With the world, including Moriarty, believing him to be dead, John was free to do as he saw fit with the man. What this apparently meant was terrorizing Sherlock’s every waking moment.
Sherlock was prettily strung up in a stress position, with his arms suspended above his shoulders and pulled as far apart as his straining shoulder joints would allow without dislocating. He couldn’t stand flat on the floor without pulling his shoulder’s nearly out of socket so he was forced to balance on his tip toes. Sherlock wasn’t gagged, but he was long past verbal language, having been deprived of all human contact except his torturer for months and been subjected to nearly endless torture and sleep deprivation. His only companion was pain and only comfort was the certainty that he was soon to die.
“I think we’ll play a new game today, Sherly. I know you miss your little boyfriend, so why don’t we send Jim a little video, hmm? Show him how pretty you can scream.” Without further ado, John turned on the video camera and began the day’s activities. “I think you’d look rather pretty if we gave you some wings, don’t you agree Sherly?”
John grabbed a scalpel off a tray of surgical supplies he’d placed conveniently within his reach and began heating it up. John then began carving into Sherlock’s back, thick rivulets of blood running down it as Sherlock screamed and screamed and screamed. Flashes of white bone became visible as the carving continued. “There, there darling. We’re nearly done. And when you’re all healed up you’ll have these beautiful scars. My perfect boy.”
Eventually, Sherlock ceased screaming and just started panting and tearlessly sobbing. Once the wings were fully carved into Sherlock’s back, John set the blade down and picked up a giant bottle of hydrogen peroxide off the tray. “Nearly done darling, can’t have you getting an infection and dying on me, can we?”
Sherlock started fighting his restraints and making these strange choking noises as he tried to scream and beg but couldn’t because his vocal cords were so utterly wrecked from his earlier screaming. “Now, now darling you know we need to do this. Stop making a fuss.” Without any further warning, John began pouring the entire bottle of hydrogen peroxide over the deep cuts littering Sherlock’s back. Sherlock made a horrific looking soundless scream, as his entire body shook in his restraints. Once the bottle was empty, John set it back on the tray.
“Now we just need to suture you up and get you bandaged! And than we’re done for the morning! Isn’t that great, Sherly?” John mockingly sing-songed at his prisoner. Sherlock was dangling limply from his restraints now, still conscious but lost deep in his mind palace as he tried to dissociate from this last misery. John quietly sewed up his placid captive, whispering false comforts at him the entire time. He than wrapped his entire torso in bandages. He gently kissed Sherlock’s cheek and than left the area being recorded by the camera.
James Moriarty was always the one in control. He reveled in the chaos he created and enjoyed the thrill of the game. But as he stared down at screen showing the battered and scarred form of Sherlock Holmes, his control slipped. He felt a twinge of something he couldn't quite place, an unfamiliar feeling that he didn't know how to deal with.
Moriarty threw his tablet at the wall. He was furious, how dare someone lay a hand on what was rightfully his. Sherlock was his to cut up and scar. His to make scream like that. His to cuddle and suture and sooth. He spent a few minutes working out his confusing emotions by punching and throwing anything within a 20 foot radius of him before beginning to calm down. John Watson might have been bold enough to take what was rightfully his, but Moriarty wouldn’t let it stand. He would break John like he broke his Sherlock. Moriarty stormed out of his office and immediately began attempting to hunt down John Watson, using all of his network’s considerable resources to do it.
Within 3 days, all the time and effort he spent building up a network of informants and spies and criminals paid off. He got a location of where John was and where he was likely holding Sherlock. Jim leapt into action, his gun drawn, and took off. When he found John, he didn’t hesitate and immediately shot him. But the damage had already been done. Sherlock was bruised, battered and scarred, his clothes torn, and his body trembling with pain. He was lying on a small mound of blood soaked blankets. Moriarty knelt down beside him, his eyes scanning for any injuries that needed attention.
Sherlock looked up at Moriarty with a mix of surprise and suspicion. He didn’t seem happy to see him, rather terrified.
Moriarty attempted to pick Sherlock up, but he fliched away from the man’s touch. In an uncharacteristically kind gesture, “Shh, darling, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to get you off this disgusting floor.” Sherlock still flinched when Moriarty went to grab him again, but he let Moriarty support him as they made their way out of the abandoned warehouse. They stumbled out into the cold night air, and Moriarty wrapped his coat around Sherlock, trying to keep him warm.
As they walked to the car, Sherlock's pain became more evident. He winced with every step, and Moriarty could see the strain on his face. He knew that they needed to get him medical attention, but he also knew that they couldn't go to a hospital. Too many questions would be asked, and Sherlock's safety was still in question.
Moriarty led Sherlock to a small apartment that he kept for situations like this. He laid Sherlock down on the bed and began to examine his injuries more closely. There were cuts and bruises all over his body, and his left arm hung limply at his side. But they all seemed clean and well-cared for. John evidently didn’t want his little pet to die before his games were done.
Moriarty tried to ease the pain as much as possible. Giving Sherlock the strongest pain medication he had to hand, with Sherlock whimpering and trying to protest when he saw the needle, and doing his best to make him warm and comfortable. But he knew that there was only so much he could do. Sherlock laid back on the soft bed, his eyes half-closed in pain but still trying to track Jim’s every movement. Moriarty sat beside him, and began stroking Sherlock's forehead, trying to comfort him. Sherlock startled at the soft gesture and tried to pull away but Jim just hushed him. He knew that this was a dangerous game that they were playing, but he couldn't just leave Sherlock like this.
As the night wore on, Moriarty watched over Sherlock, making sure that he was comfortable and that the medication he gave him was helping. There wasn’t much he could do for his injuries, but he wanted to make sure Sherlock was okay. That he was actually there and real. Moriarty sat there, lost in thought, his mind reeling with the realization of what he had done.
He had saved Sherlock Holmes, his greatest enemy, from certain death. But as he sat there, watching over him, he realized that his feelings for Sherlock were more complicated than he had ever imagined. He couldn't deny the feelings of affection and concern that he felt for the detective. Once he was certain that Sherlock wasn’t immediately going to die if he tried to move him, and Moriarty had had time to figure out a good explanation for why he was saving what was ostensibly his arch nemesis, he called Moran. “Sebastian, please come immediately to my location. And notify our doctor friend, they’ll have a patient shortly.”
After that rather short phone conversation, Moriarty hung up and deliberated about what to do with Sherlock. He seemed incredibly afraid and skittish, refusing to close his eyes despite how exhausted he must be from his injuries and the medication Jim had given him. As Jim waited for Moran to arrive, he had the idea to sedate Sherlock. “Sherlock, darling. Sebastian is going to be here in the next few minutes, and than we’re going to take you somewhere safe. A doctor, an actual doctor not a butcher like John was, is going to fix you up and make sure you’re okay. Do you think you can cooperate with us?”
Sherlock’s eyes shot wide open, and he weakly tried to writhe away from Jim and sit up at the same time. “Alright, it’s alright, love. You’re safe, I’m not going to hurt you and neither is Seb.” Continuing his soothing patter of meaningless comforts, Jim tried to sneak a syringe of sedative from the bedside table. Sherlock saw him, even in his weakened state, and immediately began struggling again, shooting upright just as Sebastian came in the room. “Seb, hold him down. He’s panicking.” With Sebastian easily wrestling Sherlock into a hold and getting him pinned to his chest, Moriarty stabbed Sherlock with the syringe. “Shh, shh, Sherlock. Everything is alright. Just go to sleep, everything will make sense when you wake up.”