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It had happened the night of the dinner. James had wanted to go looking for Beatrice, but he didn't want to seem desperate.
James Moriarty was alot of things. Desperate was not one of them.
So he had taken to wandering the halls.
The place was massive. Massive. James had grown up in a one room cottage. This place was... insane.
He had been wandering for almost half an hour when a cloth was clamped over his mouth.
He grabbed the arm holding the most likely chloroform-soaked-rag and twisted it. He spun around. The man was pretty tall. Maybe 6'4. He was pretty obviously one of Silas's goons. He punched him in the noes.
The man stumbled back a step before attempting to return a punch, which Moriarty easily dodged. He heard scuffling of feet behind him. Shite.
Being the gentalman he is, he kicked the man in front of him in the genitals.
He spun around.
Three other men behind him. Where the hell had they came from?
"Look sirs, this fight seems a little unfair. How about we come back tomorrow and I bring Three of my guys? Or do we want like, a week prep-time?" James quipped.
One of the men mumbled something in another language. Probably rather rude.
"No? Okay. We can jus-"
James was forced to dodge another punch. He was tackled from the side and he wrestled with the other man for a second, fighting to get on top.
James managed to pin the larger man and jabbed his thumbs into his eyes, effectively stunning him.
Then he heard the low click of a gun.
He raised his hands, on instinct and turned slowly.
He considered screaming. But he was nowhere near Mycroft or Sherlock's rooms. No one would hear him.
"That's right. Turn around, nice and slow."
"Look, gentlemen, let's not d-"
Again, a cloth was clamped over his mouth.
Chloroform wasn't instantaneous. He knew this. He had minuets before he was properly knocked out, but with the gun pointed at his head James didn't dare struggle.
He could feel his knees getting weak. He unwillingly leaned forward, into the arms of one of the goons.
His vision blurred, then darkened, and the next second it was gone completely.
He woke up slowly. Groggily.
He was in a cave of sorts. A mine?
The walls were rock. His mouth was gagged and his wrists and ankles were tied. His jacket had been taken most likely along with anything useful.
He tried to stand. Failed. Tried again.
"Look James," he jumped at the voice and did his best to turn around. Silas. Of course.it was fucking Silas. The fucking shithead.
"You must forgive me. I wouldn't do this unless completely necessary. See, I need another subject for a demonstration and I really can't have you staying friends with Sherlock. You influence him far to much. I need to be able.to make him the perfect heir. I can't do that with you around, now can I?"
He squirmed away from him. He couldn't breath with the gag in his mouth. He just wanted to breath.
Then Silas stood up and left.
James wasn't sure how long he was left alone for.
He ws in some sort of office. He didn't really care. He managed to find a sharp piece of rick in the wal and did his best to saw through his restraints which was pretty difficult with his hands behind his back.
When he got the rope tin enough he ripped it and scrambled to untie the rope around his ankles. He ripped the gag off his mouth and stumbled to his feet. He had no idea where he was going when he left the office.
He didn't get far before he felt a sharp pain against the back of his head and his knees buckled. He looked up to see one of the guards holding what James assumed was a gun. His vision was to blurred to really tell. That's what had hit him obviously.
The guards foot connected with James's ribs and he cried out. Two more times before he was grabbed by the hair and hauled up.
"I thought we had an understanding James." Silas said. He spat in his face.
They had retied his wrists but hadn't bothered with a gag or his ankles this time, for some reason.
Silas wiped his face in disgust. "Break his legs." He ordered. He sounded almost fucking bored.
"No. No, no, no, look i- I'm sorry, I won't try to escape again, tie me up or something, just don't-"
He was cut off by the sound of his own scream.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed. Maybe a day or two. Maybe three.
If he so much as tthought about escaping, they kicked the shit out of him
If he spoke without being spoken to?
Kicked the shit out of him.
Didn't speak when spoken to?
Kicked the shit out of him.
They needed to wake him up?
You guessed it! They kicked the fucking shit out of him!
So yeah, overall he was having a wonderful stay at cave-in-the-middle-of-nowhere-B&B.
He hadn't eaten since he got here, and he'd gotten sick twice, so safe to say he was hungry.
Well atleast he was used to that.
A part if him wanted to hold Sherlock would find him. But he knew that was ridiculous.
Silas was practically holding them hostage. Even If he knew where James was, Sherlock wouldn't be able to save hihim.
He had gotten used to seeing the same few faces. They rotated between about seven different goons, Silas and occasionally he'd see professor Malik.
So when, through his blurry vision, he seen a young lady in a nice dress, she had his full attention.
"Bea?" He demanded. One of his eyes was swollen shut, so it was hard to tell, but when she looked up, he knew it was her.
"Bea, thank God." He muttered.
She ignored him, sitting down at her father desk, looking at some papers.
"Beatrice, please." His voice was shakey. Unrecognisable.
"Beatrice." He whispered. "You don't have to let this happen. You don't have to be like him. Just untie me. I'm not asking anything else. Please."
She stood up, walking over to him leisurely and crouching right in front of him.
With the end of the pen she was holding, she lifted up James face, examining it.
"I'm just trying to figure out if i enjoyed you more when you were all cocky and shit." Beatrice said with a smirk.
He wasn't exactly sure how he was ment to respond.
"If- if you won't help me, atleast tell me if Sherlock is okay."
"Oh, he's fine. Father is treating them amazingly, though they are still acting as if they are prisoners."
"Because they are! So are you! Why can't you see that?"
She rolled her eyes, standing up and leaving.
"Bea, no please! I'm sorry, just don't leave me on my own! Please!"
But it was too late. She was long gone.
"Rise and shine."
He was woken to a kick in the ribs. He groaned, trying to curl in on himself but someone grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet.
His vision went white and when he came to again all he could hear was his own screams.
His legs had been broken for probably two days, but the pain had faded from constant agony, to constant pain unless of course they were touched or moved at all. And they were making him fucking stand. He felt like throwing up, but there was nothing in his stomache.
The guards half dragged, half carried him outside and threw him into the back of a cart, tying the rope around his wrists to the railing. Then they gagged him and threw a blanket over him.
He wasn't sure how long they trailed before he felt the cart roll to a stop. They pulled the blanket off him. It was night, they were in the city. After that he had no clue where they were.
One of the guards throws him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carries him inside.
It seemed to be a bar of sorts, and just like in Paris, they ended up getting into a back room and going into a basement of sorts.
This time the room was empty, except for the stage with the glass cage.
He did his best to squirm, fight but the guard holding him had the advantage of not being severely injured, starved, semiconsious and dehydrated.
Silas appeared from behind stage and smiled in greeting.
"Ah, the star of the show! Untie him. Take off the gag so he can breath better." Silas told the guards. They did as they were told and someone opened the cage.
He had to do it at the exact right time. He waited until they almost had him in for him to bite down on his captives hand. He threw a punch and heard the crunch of a noise being broken and snapped his head back, slamming it into the face of whoever stood behind him. He managed to get about three steps before his knees gave up but he kept trying to crawl away, yelling for help the whole time.
He heard Silas curse and walk over to him, kicking him in the back of the head hard enough to stun him. Then he hauled him up and threw him into the box, slamming the door behind him.
James sat on the floor of the box for atleast an hour before he heard anything. They had thrown a big red cloth over he box so they could have a grand reveal and pull it off or whatever.
James heard chatter. Oh joys, the audience had arrived. His death was nearing. Yay. He thinks bitterly.
He hears the speech, the same one gave in Paris, the laughs at the butterfly and then Silas starts talking about 'in the right concentration, it could kill a city' and James is revealed. His eyes adjust to the light and what he sees horrifies him.
At the front of the crowd, the Holmes family, all except Beatrice quiet obviously hear against their will, with guards either side, holding guns.
The look on Sherlock's face breaks his heart. Confusion, fear, desperation.
"James!"
The small door at the side of the cage is open, and the poison dropped in.
It feels like he's drowning. His lungs filling with a foreign substance, as he chokes. Banging at the glass in a desperate attempt to break it.
Sherlock is yelling at his father.
He blacks out for a second when he comes to, the room is chaos.
Screaming, fighting, punching.
He's vaugly aware of a figure, Mycroft Holmes, with a rag held over his mouth, appearing on the stage in front of him with a chunk of wood in hand, and repeatedly hitting he glass.
Slowly spiderweb cracks appear and grow. But James can't move. Can't care. When the glass shatters and rains down on him, he doesn't cover his face. He feels hands, grabbing him by the underarm and hauling him out.
His vision is blurring and breathing is getting any easier.
The last thing he sees before he passes out, is a very concerned Sherlock.
Sherlock looked down at James body, laying completely limp in his bed.
He had never seen the man so still.
He hated his father more than anything right then. He didn't care if he was dead. He hated him.
James face was covered in cuts and bruises that were practically black. The left side of his face was so swollen that he couldn't open his eye.
Three cracked ribs. Four broken. Possible internal bleeding.
A possibly cracked skull.
Both of his legs had been broken at the shin. The bruising was horrific.
The poison had most likely messed up his lungs. He might have breathing issues for the rest of his life.
Mycroft had gotten him out as soon as he could. They had Xiao Wei hidden in the crowd. She shot Silas as a distraction. Mostly for the sake of shooting Silas, but it also served as a distraction. They didn't want to shoot the glass in fear of injuring James.
It had work, thank God.
They had got him out. Got him to a doctor. Kept him alive.
But now, here he lay in front of Sherlock and he questioned whether James would've been better off dead.
"Rise and shine."
Moriarty flinches, hard enough to jostle his many broken bones. He groans.
He feels a hand, placed against his forehead as if to check for a temperature. He can't stop himself from recoiling at the touch.
"Hey, hey James. It's me. Your alright."
Sherlock.
Was he dreaming?
Probably.
He tried to sit up, just to be pushed back down by a firm hand.
"Wh-" his voice sounded strained, shakey and terrified. But he couldn't seem to be able to calm himself down.
"We're back at the house. Don't worry, Silas and his goons are long gone. Professor Malik too. Mycroft managed to get you out."
He felt strangely light. As if his consciousness wasn't in his body, but floating somewhere above it.
He looked around the room. Sherlock was sitting at the edge of the bed. Beatrice was asleep in the chair.
Wait. Beatrice?
"What the fuck is she doing here?"
"Its a long story, but she's on our side now."
"No. No."
"James, Silas is manipulative. You know that. It's not her fault."
"No. Sh-she could've helped me. She w-was there." He says. God, why wouldn't his voice stop shaking."
Sherlock sighed, then nodded, crossed the room to Beatrice and nudged her awake, then talked to her in a hushed tone. She looked like she wanted to say something to James but she nodded and left.
Again, he tried to sit up, but Sherlock stopped him.
"Two broken legs, four ribs, fractured rist, cracked skull, malnutrition, dehydration, poisoning I could keep going James. You need rest."
He lay back down, but not with out huffing in annoyance. His vision was swimming slightly.
"Tá mé- I'm fine." He corrected himself.
Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched up in concern which James couldn't help but smile slightly at.
After a second, he frowned. "D'ya have me on drugs?"
Sherlock nodded. "Some opioid. For the pain. Why? Do you feel ill?"
"No. I'm grand, just feel a bit fuzzy."
Sherlock nodded. "That's normal-"
"I know."
After a few seconds James frowned.
"Did Xiao Wei-?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry Sherlock." He.said after a second. No matter how much James hated the man it was still Sherlock's father.
"No, no. It's quiet alright. The basterd deserved it."
Well that definitely wasn't the reaction he'd expected from Sherlock.
"James, I am so profoundly sorry that it took us so long to find you."
James shook his head, which hurt something shocking. "It's not your fault."
"I just feel as though I dragged you into this, and-"
"Respectfully Sherlock, shut the fuck up. I am a grown man and I choose to come here myself and I do not for a second regret meeting you. Ya hear me?"
Sherlock nodded. Was he crying?
"Hey, look at me. It's okay. Your grand. Your grand." He said, pulling him into a hug.