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The Reconstruction of John Watson

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Jim sneered at the detective pointing a gun at him. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes..." He said softly, stepping away and disappearing through a door. And then it struck him. Oh, god, why didn't he think of this sooner? He popped back out, lasers pointed everywhere. "Sorry boys! I'm so-o changeable!" He grinned. He stepped quickly to John, ignoring Sherlock's gun and shouts of outrage. He grabbed the doctor by his hair and hauled him up, mouth close to his neck. "I'm taking your pet, Sherlock. And I'm going to make him my own. A party favor for all the headaches you gave me. Now don't try to come get him or I'll snap his neck." He flicked a knife open, pressing it between vertebrae in his spine. "Let's go, Johnny boy," he grinned, backing them out of the pool, grinning at Sherlock the whole way until they disappeared through the double doors.

John refused to cry out as he was yanked by the head, as the cool blade pressed against his skin. He cast one longing look at Sherlock, words on his tongue that he just couldn't say. I love you. Come find me. Moriarty forced him him move, backing him out of the pool and into the hall that led to the outside. He was too terrified to speak, glad at least that the Semtex-filled parka was left behind.

Jim shoved John back into the car, putting a knee in the middle of his back and cinching zip ties around his wrists. "There we are, darling." He righted him again. "Take us to the western spot," he said. The car pulled away from the curb and Jim smiled, putting his arm around John's shoulders.

John growled out a warning when Jim draped his arm across him. "Don't touch me."

Jim immediately slapped his face. "Ah, ah, ah. You're going to obey your master like a good boy, now."

John glared at him, cracking his jaw. "I'm no one's pet. Not his, not yours."

Jim grinned. "That's what you think. But you'll see. You'll learn."

John swallowed, still seething, adrenaline flowing through his body. He rotated his wrists to no avail- zip-ties had no give. He wouldn't be getting out until Moriarty cut him out. "Where are you taking me?"

Jim chuckled. "Now that would be telling, wouldn't it?" He smiled, toying with his hair.

John shuddered at the rather intimate contact. He let out a long breath through his nose and closed his eyes, opting for silence. He'll find me. He won't let me rot with this bastard.

"He won't find you," Jim remarked.

"Yes, he will." He had to. He fucking had to. He's Sherlock Holmes; you couldn't fool him then, you won't fool him now.

Jim cleared his throat. "Johnny, do you know why Sherlock found me?"

"Because he's the best at his job."

Jim snorted. "No. No, Sherlock found me because I was bored and let him. You heard all his talks with me, heard everything I said. I led him to me, little one. Which means he's not going to find you unless I want him to."

John could not believe that. He couldn't. Sherlock would find him, Sherlock would cut him loose and they'd get away. Whenever John was in danger, Sherlock always came. Right? They defended each other, rescued each other, over and over. Not even Moriarty could stop him. Hopefully. This man is insane.

Jim laughed quietly. "Your loyalty is absolutely adorable."

John glared down at the floor. "You'll end up thinking it's something else entirely, I can assure you."

Jim grabbed his face, forcing him to look at him. "No, Johnny, see, here's what's going to happen. I'm going to strip you of who you are and build you right back up. I'm making you mine. By the time I'm through with you all you'll want is me," he explained, letting him go. "And it'll be so beautiful to watch."

John stared into his black eyes, shivering a little at both his words and his touch. He was grateful when the man let go of his face, grateful to be given his most basic privacy back. They couldn't get out of the car sooner- he felt trapped, beyond the zip-ties. A morbid part of his mind saw the vehicle as a symbolic coffin, carrying him to the burial plot. Don't lose hope. Sherlock won't let you go so easily. Right? John swallowed and forced his mind blank. It was too much to deal with right then.

Jim smiled up at the large house the car rolled up to. The place was secluded, surrounded by fields and nothing else. No one to hear screams or call the police. Perfect. He got out of the car, dragging John with him. "Ah," he sighed. "Home sweet home."

John was, admittedly, impressed. Growing up in a tax bracket below the poverty line, he was used to smaller, run-down homes. This was palatial to him. He stumbled out, pulled along by the bicep, marched beside Moriarty as they walked up to the front door. Secluded. Too private. Dear god, what is he going to do to me?

Jim opened the door and watched the driver leave with a smile. "Just you and me now, Johnny boy." He shoved him through the front door, leading him through the living room and into the hall, opening a door that went down to the basement. "And here's where the guest of honor will be staying," he chuckled. He flicked on the light and nudged him forward. "Be good now, don't make me push you down them."

John walked down the stairs, hair standing on end. He remembered one fight with his father, resulting in a tumble down the wooden stairs and two shattered jam jars beneath him. Broken wrist, sprained ankle, black eye, and he locked me down there for two days before taking me to the hospital. John did not get on well with basements, and when you added Jim Moriarty to that mix...

Jim shoved him against the far wall once they'd reached the bottom, spinning him around to get at the zip ties. "Now, don't fight me, Johnny," he said softly, flicking his knife open again, cutting them. "Don't make this worse for yourself." He turned him around again, pinning his wrists above his head and fastening them in the shackles looped over a beam above him.

John felt the air go out of him as he collided with the the stone, and the moment the cold metal touched his wrists he pulled against them. Hard. "If you think I'm not going to fight, you don't know me very well, Moriarty."

Jim backhanded him, one hand on his throat. "Oh, I know you are, I just thought I'd warn you." He hit him again to disorient him and shut the manacles around his hands. "Oh, we are going to have so much fun together!" He giggled.

John glared at him, reeling slightly from the blows. "Fuck you."

"Mm, not yet. That comes later." Jim grinned, licking his teeth. "My, my, my, where to start...?" He mused, looking him over. "Ah, I know!" He squealed, delighted. He grabbed for a larger knife resting on a nearby end table. "You're wearing far too many clothes to be any fun."

John shuddered at the thought of submitting to the criminal. No. God help me, that will not happen. As the knife glinted in the light, John swallowed. There were a lot of things that could happen with a blade that size. A lot of things could be nicked. A lot of things could be removed.

"Don't worry, I'll be careful." He winked, cutting through his cardigan easily.

John listened to his clothing tear, gritting his teeth against the curses he wanted to throw. You've done this before and survived. You can make it here, too. The difference was, of course, that this man knew what he was doing.

Jim threw the rags onto the ground, undoing the buttons on his shirt next, still grinning at him. "You know, I've always been curious about this body of yours."

John snorted. "That's ridiculous. We both know it's not my body you're interested in."

Jim cocked his head, slicing the sleeves to get it off of him. "It isn't?"

"It's Sherlock's."

"That I'm interested in? Please, John. If I wanted Sherlock I'd have him and not you, don't be stupid." Jim sliced through the T-shirt, finally getting at his skin. "Ah, there we are," he growled, eyes glinting. He tugged the shredded fabric open with his hand, throwing the rags away. "Hm, better than I expected." He popped John's dog tags off his neck and put them on the stand.

John watched the metal leave with a nervous look in his eyes. My tags. Without them he felt far more bare, far more open beneath Moriarty's black gaze. "Oh, please," he huffed, trying to recover. "'We were made for each other.' 'Hey sexy.' 'I love watching you dance.' Don't pretend to flatter me, I'm not as stupid as people seem to enjoy making me out to be. I'm a doctor, after all."

Jim backhanded him. "Lesson one, I give you a compliment, you say thank you. And I'll reiterate, if I wanted Sherlock, I'd have him."

John stretched his jaw, spitting a bit to blood to the side where his mouth collided with his teeth. "Fine."

"Mn, no, no, no. 'Yes, sir,'" he corrected. "You were a soldier, this concept shouldn't be new."

"I was a captain. Not always, no, but that's what I ended on. I don't take orders from you."

Jim laughed. "Oh, you will, don't worry."

John wished he'd brought his gun. Could have avoided this whole mess if I went out with my gun. The one bloody day I forget it... "Do you honestly think I will? I don't break."

"Everyone breaks, John," he hissed, popping the front of John’s denims open. "Everyone."

John felt his stomach clench as Jim began to cut through his jeans. "I don't know what it is with you people and underestimating me, but I'm getting real tired of it."

Jim ripped the fabric easily, dropping to a knee as he took off his socks and shoes, slipping the jeans off after that. "See, I don't underestimate you, John, not at all," he grinned. "That's why this is going to be so fun." He glanced at his pants with a smirk. "Ah, right. It's Monday, isn't it?"

John blushed and looked away. "I'd ask you how you know about that, but I don't think you'd tell me."

"You think Lestrade's the only one that reads your blog?" He winked.

"I haven't..." There was one post. One. A few months ago. Sherlock commented about them. The doctor swallowed. "Oh."

Jim smirked. "There it is," he whispered. He moved closer to him, grabbing the waistband with his hand. He pulled it out, just a bit, and peeked down. "Ooh, yes, this'll work nicely." Rather than cut them off, Jim pulled them down to his ankles, knife still in hand and tossed them aside. He stood and smiled. "Hm, now what shall we start with...?"

John was admittedly grateful the man didn't ruin his favorite pants. Lovely priorities, Watson. "What do you mean?"

Jim blinked. "You're joking?"

John repeated himself. "What do you mean, 'what shall we start with'? What the hell are you planning on doing to me?" He risked a glance at the blade, really not liking being naked so close to it.

Jim stepped close to him, pressing against him. "I'm breaking you, John. I'm going to absolutely shatter you. And then I'm going to put you back together. I'm going to make you mine, not Sherlock's, understand?"

John swallowed. "You're going to try, at least."

Jim licked his lips. "John, didn't we just have a talk about underestimating?"

John nodded. "Why yes, we did." He narrowed his eyes. "Shall we begin?"

Jim barked a laugh. "So eager, I like that," he growled. "Let's see, John, you were POW, weren't you?" He asked, turning away from him.

John didn't see the need to lie. "Yeah. Two weeks."

"What did they do to you?"

John closed his eyes. "Heated blades, rusty, filthy. Worried of sepsis. Burns, cuts, beatings. Starved. Dehydrated. Flogged."

"Child's play, then..." Jim smiled. "Well, I don't have anything rusted around, but..." He lifted a blade from inside the fireplace roaring and popping beside them, grinning. "Guess this'll do. Hold still, now." He sliced the doctor's arm.

John did not, to his credit, scream. His face contorted in pain, the smell of melting flesh assaulting his senses. Nonononononononononononono. He squeezed his eyes shut, a few tears leaking from the sides. You can do this, John. It's just a cut.

Jim cut a line down his chest. "Hm...you know, I think I'll write my name," he said thoughtfully, making another slash to hook the J.

John threw his head back as he cried out, pulling on the chains that bound him as Moriarty began to mark him. Even if I get out of here, it will always be there. Always. Worse, through the pain, there was something... there, in the back of his mind. Claimed. He's fucking claiming me.

"Aw, don't worry, I won't make it too big," Jim promised, starting on the I now.

John was breathing shallowly, aware of every movement of the blade. He made pained noises in his throat, aware of the blood dripping down his chest.

Jim finished the M and licked a trail of blood from his skin. He held it on his tongue, moaning softly. "Hm, now what?" He mused, John's blood stained on his teeth. He slapped him, hard. "I think beatings first, that might be nice.

John flinched away from the man's mouth, but it was no use. He watched him move, body utterly still, breathing raggedly as their eyes met. When Moriarty pulled back, apparently relishing the taste of his blood, John couldn't stifle his groan. No, John. It wasn't- He didn't have time to fully develop the thought before the bastard's hand collided with his face, forcing his mouth against his teeth with incredible force. Vision a little blurry, John lifted his head and cracked his neck, eyes narrowed.

Jim grinned. "Oh, did you like that?" He chuckled. He slapped him again, balling his fist and cracking against his jaw. He struck him several times in the ribs and stomach, watching him bleed and bruise. "Answer me," he demanded.

John took the blows with grunts of pain, swallowing thickly when he stopped. "Yes," he said, looking him dead in the eyes. "I enjoyed that." His body ached, and he could already feel the bruises forming. "And it means absolutely nothing."

Jim's brows rose. "It doesn't? It doesn't mean something when nasty Jimmy licks blood off you and you like it? Come now..."

John had to admit he had a point. It could have been anyone though, John. You're a soldier. A surgeon. It stands to reason that blood doesn't make you squeamish. It makes sense you might enjoy a bit of bloodplay. He opted to force a smirk on his face in response. "Not. A. Thing."

Jim grabbed his throat and slammed him back against the wall, squeezing his Adam's apple. "I really, really, hate liars, John," he snarled. His hand slipped down to his groin, fingertips teasing his cock. "And I saw your dick twitch when I did it. Now tell the truth."

John lost the wind in his lungs a second time as the stone bit into his flesh. Moriarty had a hold on him, squeezing his throat, and for a second he fought for air. Then, though... Then he drew it down, down his chest, down his hips, and let it brush his half-hard cock. Automatic response to erotic visual stimulation. Means nothing. "Fine. It was a little hot."

Jim squeezed, cheek twitching. "I said the truth."

John winced. "Very hot."

"See, was that so hard?" Jim smiled, letting go. He slipped his belt out of his waist. "Flogging?" He cracked it over his skin. "I think so. Be so nice if I had something less bulky. Riding crop maybe," he grinned, winking at him as his struck his legs.

John cried out as the leather snapped against his skin, reminded all too well of his father and his 'punishments'. Whatever arousal he might had felt faded instantly.

"Aw, I'm sorry. This remind you too much of Daddy?" He pretended to pout. He twisted him around, his chest against the wall now and grinned. "Maybe this'll help." He struck out at him, bringing the leather down on his cheeks.

John bit his lip hard enough to break this skin, trying to fight the familiar feelings of shame and worthlessness that accompanied such treatment. He refused to let himself feel like a child, not here, not in front of Moriarty. He whimpered at the pain, flesh stinging where it struck.

Jim kept at it, strokes becoming more violent as he went. He finally stopped, pressing against him, his lips against his ear. "Was Daddy that rough with you?"

John could feel blood from where Moriarty hit him, and the feel of his clothing irritated his raw skin. He hissed in pain, trying to get past it, trying to stay afloat. "Sometimes," he replied quietly.

"Aw, don't worry. My daddy wasn't very nice to me either," Jim cooed, kissing his cheek. "You and I are more alike than you think."

John shivered at the touch of his lips. "I doubt that."

"Mm, knew you'd say that. But I'll bet you'd be surprised." He bit down on his neck, hard, breaking skin and watching blood trickle down John's back. "God, you taste good," he hummed, grinning wickedly. He backed up. "Now where were we?" The belt split across his spine. "Right, that's right..."

John shouted at the pain of those teeth tearing into him, pressing his head into the wall. Another scar. Another mark I'll never be able to erase. The leather collided with the thin skin stretched over his bone and he howled, every nerve clustered in that area of his spine overloading his brain with pain signals.

Jim kept at his back, watching the welts rise over his skin, a few bleeding. He finally dropped the belt, letting it clatter to the floor. He spun John around again, grinning. "You want to know a secret, Johnny?"

John took each blow with a sob of pain, hanging like a dead weight against the chains. "What?" His head was down, eyes bloodshot, voice barely above a whisper.

Jim lifted his chin, grinning. "By the time I'm done with you, all you'll want is me. You'll want me to touch you, and kiss you and love you and never even think of Sherlock Holmes again. And it'll be so beautiful to watch."

"I'm going to keep fighting." John didn't sound very sure of himself. "You know that. You know I'm not going to give up."

"John." His voice was soft, even gentle, but his eyes were icy and unforgiving. "What did I tell you about lying?"

John swallowed. "I'm not. I'm not lying." He believed it, after all. He believed he could fight. Maybe not right now, two decades of ignored memories whirling in his head, but after they faded... after they faded he'd be fine. Wouldn't he?

Jim smiled. "Really, John? You think you're going to be able to say no to me?" He chuckled. "You're good, but you're not that good, are you?" He stepped close again, tracing his lips. "You've got some dark things in that pretty head of yours. Nasty things you'd like to do to people. All those lovely blood-soaked sex dreams you wouldn't dare tell Sherly about? Well I already know about them, I want them, in fact. But I'll just have to wear you down until you can admit it to yourself and me."

John trembled at his touch, but he did not shy away. "I admit them to myself all the time, Mr. Moriarty, whether I share them aloud with others or not." He could almost hear Ella's voice in his ear. Deep down, you're afraid you're still dangerous.

"Hm, so telling Sherlock doesn't scare the shit out of you?" He demanded, grinning at the tremble.

"I wouldn't tell him anything that private. Not because it scares me, because it's private."

Jim leveled their gazes, dropping his hand to thumb his Adam's apple. "Tell me."

"Do you really want to know?" He's sick, but I don't think he wants to hear what I've got inside my head. No one would.

Jim slapped him. "No fucking shit. Speak."

John hissed in pain, head rocking to the side. He cracked his jaw and brought his neck up, meeting Jim's eyes. "I want to fuck someone with a loaded gun. I want to taste flesh. I want to be covered in blood- someone else's. I want sex and death. I want to kill as I come and feel the life leave my partner. I want to choke. I want to be bound. I want to be drugged. I want to drug someone else and take them, take whatever I want from them. I want to to be forced to get off at knife or gunpoint. I want to flay flesh, I want to break bone, I want to own and be owned. Is that good enough?"

Jim 's grin spread as he spoke. "Ohoh, that's delicious..." he growled.

John averted his eyes, the man's gaze too intense for him to handle.

"Look at me," Jim demanded, voice dark.

John didn't want to. God, he didn't. But he did. He lifted his eyes again, his blue meeting Moriarty's black. Bruises, he thought. The colors of bruises.

"I'd do all those things to you," he purred. "Every single one."

John felt his skin break into gooseflesh, despite the heat of the place. "Every one?" That seemed a little extreme, given some of the things he'd admitted to.

"You do realize who the fuck you're talking to, don't you?" He growled.

"Yes, I do. Made it impossible not to, haven't you?" John arched a brow and nodded toward his marred chest.

Jim clicked his tongue and shook his head. "No, still too soon." He backed up, going over to the table with his back to him again. "You get to pick what I do to you next."

John swallowed nervously. "Pick? What are my options?"

"Let's see, I could electrocute you, waterboard you, rip out your fingernails, rip out two of your molars or fuck you dry with the end of this broom handle," he said, turning around to watch his face.

John blanched. He did not like any of those. At all. "If I have to choose from those." A nice cuppa and some takeout would be nice. "...Electrocution."

Jim chuckled. "Interesting." He took up the two clamps on the table, putting one on the shackle on his wrist, the other biting on a wet sponge. He flicked the battery on with a smile. "As you wish." He pressed it to his skin.

John screamed as the electricity arced through his body. He contorted against his shackles, tears in his eyes as his muscles took on a life of their own. Well, you've had better ideas, John.

Jim cackled and watched him squirm. "Who needs Sherlock dancing when I have you?" He pushed it against his arm, giggling like mad.

John sobbed freely as he twisted, torn between the agony he was feeling and the anger at Moriarty enjoying his pain. I'm not like you. I'm not like you. Fucking hell, I AM NOT LIKE YOU. His mind screamed as the contact point burned.

"Oh, what are the tears for? You chose this one, it's all on you," he grinned. He pressed it against his hip.

John jerked as fresh pain hit. He's got you there, John. Should have done the water one. He screamed again, the sound trailing off into whimpers.

"Where am I putting it next?" Jim grinned, waving the sponge back and forth.

John watched, shaking against the cuffs. "Scar," he said, immediately wishing he hadn't.

Jim smirked. "So creative." He obliged, cheek twitching as John screamed and cried. "Well will you look at you."

John cried out, in pain, yes, but this one was different. This caused other physical effects. He rolled his hips, gasping for breath as the jolts flowed through his sensitive scar.

Jim pulled the sponge away and looked at him with a wary smile. "Ooh, what was that?"

John caught his breath, letting the pain fade a little before answering. "Sensitive."

Jim cocked his head. "Sensitive how?" He goaded.

John licked his lips. "Um. Erogenous."

Jim laughed chewing his lip. "Now that's interesting..." He cooed, stepping closer to him. He traced the flesh with the tip of his finger, watching his face. "So I zap you and it...hurts so good?"

John shivered. "M-most touches."

Jim continued touching him, grinning. "That a fact? I'll bet Sherlock loves that, huh?"

John whimpered softly. "Never even seen it."

Jim smirked and leaned forward, brushing his lips over the puckered flesh. "He's never touched you here?"

John leaned his head back, melting beneath his lips. "No," he panted. "Never touched me anywhere."

Jim grinned. "Remarkable. Dumb motherfucker..." He kissed softly, sucking and biting a little. "You know what's even more remarkable, Johnny?"

John rocked a little, eyes fluttering closed. "Mmm, what?"

"You haven't told Moriarty to stop."

John opened his eyes. Fuck. "...Oh..." Nope. Noooooooope. Nope. Nu-uh. Do I like this? The fuck you do.

Jim grinned and straightened up, still massaging the flesh with his thumb. "Pick again."

John still hated all of the options, but there was only one he could reasonably handle. "W-waterboarding."

Jim chuckled. "Mm, think we can handle that one, eh? Alright," he sighed. He let John fall to the floor, straddling him when he was down. Once his hands were bound he wrapped the remnants of his t-shirt around his face, tying it off. He kicked off from the ground, grabbing his hair and hauling him to the vat of water he'd poured before this encounter, giving John no more than a second to recover before shoving his head under the water.

John could not, as it turned out, handle that one. As the water filled his mouth and lungs, he had one clear thought: Well fuck. At least I still have my fingernails. He did not waste his breath by screaming; he simply fought to keep himself from drowning.

"Make noise for me, Johnny, or I'll let the lack of oxygen damage that pretty brain of yours. And then what use will you be?"

John didn't want to. It's not like anyone praises my brains, you arse. In fact, it's the other way around. But god help him, he ended up making noise for him. He shouted beneath the water, curses and sounds of fear.

Jim pulled him back up, grinning ear to ear. "More?" He pushed him under again, waiting til the bubbles slowed before he yanked him back up. "Can't hear you, love."

John sucked in air when he had the chance, screaming for Jim, as loud as he could.

Jim smiled. "One more, yeah?" He held him under again, smiling, licking his lips. He counted to ten before pulling him back up. "There we go," he grinned. He tore the shirt unceremoniously from his face, tugging his hair back to look at him. "Now, I may be wrong, but I don't call that handling it."

John struggled to breathe, Moriarty's fist holding his head back. "Y-yeah. N-noticed."

Jim clicked his tongue. "Still so cheeky." He kicked him onto the floor. "Manners are important, John. So very, very important."

John cried out, colliding with the ground. "Why- ah! Why should I be polite? You're hurting me."

Jim leaned down over him. "And it never occurred to you that doing what I ask would help make it stop?"

John furrowed his brow. "...No. No, it didn't."

Jim smiled down at him, petting his cheek. "Well, if you're going to be the good pet I know you are for me, manners are very important."

John closed his eyes briefly. Just do it. Get it over with. Play his game until someone comes for you. When John looked back at Moriarty, he nodded. "Alright, Mr. Moriarty."

Jim chuckled and lifted him by his hair. "Good boy." He slammed him back against the wall, working him back into the shackles. "Lesson number two: No one is coming to find you, John. No one is going to save you from me. So stop hoping. To prove my point, I'm leaving you down here for three days. If someone comes, I'll let them come get you. Let them walk right out of here with you and I'll go to jail without a fuss. Sound fair?"

The doctor felt sick. "Yes, sir."

Jim pressed against him, holding his chin. "A little something to remember me by," he cooed. He kissed him, gently, slowly, leaving the smallest bite to his lower lip in his wake. "Have fun!" He called, trotting up the stairs and leaving him in the dark.

John kissed him back, wondering what he'd be like if he were any bit sane. Sweet, probably. Nice to be around. If only he weren't a violent, psychotic killer. When he was alone in the dark he licked his lips and hung his head, content to sit in silence. Three days, John. He began to count.