I won't kill you. (SherlockxMoriarty, violent)

Sherlock struggled to his feet, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand. He staggered over to the chair and half collapsed half sat into it. He looked around the warehouse again, trying to suss out where the hidden cameras might be. He suddenly felt self conscious, and embarrassed that John might be watching him, seeing him lose so badly.

"I messed up your suit," Sherlock grinned as Moriarty came strolling over to him. "I suppose you're going to punish me for that now. How original."

"My suit?" He looked down onto his own body. It did looked quite messy, though, that didn't seem to bother him.

"Tooo obvious, isn't it?" He smirked. With a snap of his fingers he made someone walk in. Roughly that person grabbed Sherlock's arms, handcuffing them behind the chair, also making sure they're attached to it. "Feet." He ordered the bloke who quickly attached Sherlock's feet to the chair using a rope. As fast as he'd came walking in, he disappeared again.

"No no no, Sherlock dear, I'm going to make you /mine./" He spoke insane. That being said he slipped his hand into his pocket again, getting out a sharp knife. He twirled it between his fingers as he stopped right in front of him. "Where would you like it better? The wrist?" he paused for a second "Or the chest?"

The rough hands grabbing him from behind took Sherlock by surprise. He tried to stand up but was pushed back down. His legs kicked out but were quickly bound too. He'd expected to be tied to the chair, but presumed Moriarty would do it himself. He hadn't counted on anyone else being in the warehouse. He could have sworn the place was completely empty. Suddenly he was staring into every darkened shadow and corner, wondering who else was hiding there.

There was a wild, crazy look in Moriarty's eyes...like nothing Sherlock had ever seen before. This man truly was insane. At the sight of the knife, Sherlock couldn't help but squirm in his seat. He cursed himself inwardly. He had to remain calm.

"You're not going to kill me," he stated. "What fun would that be?"

He laughed obnoxious and loud. "I'm not going to kill you, dear. I just said what I am about to do. But... Did you listteeennnn?" He started whistling a happy tune as he reached out his hands. he places his finger tips on the man's shirt, letting them dance their way up until he reached the first button. With his other hand he made the knife approach and in the same motion, cut loose the button of this man's shirt. "Oops" He whispered while frowning.

"If you're refused to choose, you leave me no choice." He explained, as if he actually felt sorry for Sherlock. He let the soft side of the blade ran along his broken cheek, making the edge turn red with blood. His other hands opened up some more buttons, exposing Sherlock's muscular chest.

"Not bad, not bad" he complimented at the sight. "But... Only one thing missing." He lifted the knife before slightly lowering it in again, making it carve into Sherlock's skin. The grin on his face widened, along was his eyes. He traced a circle onto the spot where the detective's heart could be found. Two little dots inside of it, along with one, curving line on the bottom.

Again he took a step back, admiring the bleeding face on Sherlock's chest. "Lovely."

Sherlock was relieved to hear his nemesis was not planning on killing him just yet. As long as he was alive there was still a chance of escape, of vengence...and he could still save John. He figured Moriarty was just planning to torture him with the knife...not something he was particularly looking forward to but...

Moriarty began to undo the buttons on his shirt....

"The chest it is then." he muttered.

Sherlock felt the cool edge of the blade run down his cheek. He turned his head away from the pain and winced, fresh blood shedding from his now older painful wound and splashing onto his bare chest, now fully exposed. Then he watched as the knife slowly made its way towards his chest. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, anticipating the pain. At the first incision of the blade he cried out slightly, all the muscles in his body tightening. But he refused to give Moriarty the pleasure of hearing him scream. He kept his eyes screwed shut and, breathing noisily and heavily through his nose, fought his way through the pain.

"Though... I do get the feeling it's missing something... Let me just..." he said while already starting to walk closer again.

The knife started to carve through the detective's skin again. It didn't took him long this time. As he stepped away he grinned wider than he'd ever done before. "Purrrrrfect." He purred.

Now clearly readable on Sherlock's skin were the first to letters of his name. "JM" along with a smaller "x" underneath it. That, in combined with the smiley he'd previously carved, did it.


(( I'm not being TOO insane now, am I? Just tell me if i am...:/))

Sherlock let out another little cry as the knife pierced his skin once more...then he bit his bottom lip and threw his head back, determined not to give in. Once James had stepped back to admire his handy work, Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced down at himself. The pain had brought tears to his eyes and it was difficult to see through the bluriness, although he was just able to make out the letters "JM" and a small "x" underneath the smiley face.

He looked up at Moriarty, making eye contact with the Irish psychopath and managing to offer him a grin.
"Are you quite done?"

(( No it's fine. I'm scared! ))

"For now." He shrugged and returned the grin.

His phone buzzed and he took a look at it. "Seems like the world's needing me. If you excuse me..." He said serious, why starting to walk over to the door, leaving Sherlock behind as he was.

Sherlock sat and watched for a moment as Moriarty headed off to deal with his various evil business plans. He saw him hesitate by the door of the warehouse, seemingly engrossed in his phone. He glanced around the empty warehouse again, assessing his options as he began to try and loosen off the rope tied round his hands. He already knew there were cameras in here...unless Moriarty was bluffing. If those cameras saw him trying to escape, a quick phone call or text could easily alert his nemesis. He also knew there was at least one other person in here...or at least there had been at some stage. And that person had come from behind him, then disappeared. It was entirely possible that they were still standing right behind him, about to bash him on the head at any moment or shout for Moriarty. Sherlock craned his neck trying to see behind him, he twisted his body round but the action cause the wound on his chest to gape wider and more blood gushed out. He made a small murmur. He was feeling quite weak from all the blood loss, but he knew he had to stay focused.

The rope around his hands was becoming looser and although he'd given himself friction burns trying to work it off, finally he managed to slip his right hand out...which he then used to untangle his left. Moriarty still had his back to him. He bent down to untie his feet. The pain of his slashed chest touching his knees was agony...but he gritted his teeth and kept going. With both feet undone he stood up and staggered over towards Moriarty.

As he tapped onto his phone he heard noise coming from behind him. At first he just figured it was Sherlock protesting against pain and pressure so he decided not to give any attention to it.

Just as he was about to turn the doorknob he heard footsteps. Staggering footsteps, angry, stumbling steps. The corner of his lips curled up as he turned around.

"Joining me?" He laughed as he saw Sherlock approaching him.

Any previous feelings of frustration, anguish or disgust had managed to float away, all thanks to the detective. Now joy, thrilling and sick pleasure had taken over his mind and body.

Sherlock angrily swung a punch with his right hand, making contact with a thud against Moriarty's left cheek. The smaller man staggered back a little, still grinning insanely and Sherlock threw himself on top, sending him and the criminal mastermind crashing to the floor.

By now his chest was a mess of blood, gushing from the open wounds. He was feeling faint and fighting the desire to just close his eyes and allow himself to lose consciousness.

He grabbed Moriarty's shirt collar and lifted his head off the ground slightly before slamming it back down.

"Tell me where John is! Now!"

"WOOOOPPPPS" he yelped while falling over, holding on to Sherlock slightly. His cheek felt warm and had started throbbing.

He bit his own tongue to muffle the sound he made as Sherlock slammed him into the floor. Though, it would only took one word of his lips to make someone walk over and end this. But he didn't say it just quite yet.

" Well well, showing off some feelings now, are we?" He said avoiding to answer Sherlock's question. Moriarty loved this, he was /enjoying/ this.

"Tell me damn you!" Sherlock shouted. He swung back his arm and punched Moriarty in the face once again, enjoying the sight of his enemy's blood.

"I can play rough too," he muttered. "And I'm going to make you pay for this."

He began searching the other man's pockets for the knife he knew must be there somewhere. How would he feel with "SH" carved all over him, he wondered.

His teeth clenched as he received another hit. Though a muffled scream of pain did managed to escape.

" Every touch, every punch you're giving me, your little pet received as well. Double as hard, if you don't stop searching for that knife." He hissed.

"I'm only one word away from having you shot, sherlock." He warned the detective. Hoping he'd just give up this fight, since james was at the point of having /enough/.

Sherlock paused at the mention of further punishment being doled out to John. He hesitated. He didn't want his own actions to cause John any suffering. He wanted so badly to hurt him, but right now they were playing Moriarty's game and he knew he had to play by the rules.

He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see someone with a gun standing over him. But that would be too simple. Moriarty favoured snipers. It would be someone quite a distance away, but with his target presumably trained right at Sherlock.

He reluctantly released Moriarty's collar and raised his hands in the air, in a surrender pose.

"OK OK. You win. For now."

" I do appreciate your attempts" he said brushing off his suit once more. Not that it mattered since it already had blood stains all over it.

"You need to see a doctor, honey." He said concerned as he saw sherlock getting paler by the minute.

"A car will pick you up in 5 minutes, bringing you to my own personal hospital. No need for fear, they'll treat you as if you're one of us." He paused "which you now are" he added before turning his back and leaving the abandoned warehouse.

"No, wait! Wait!" He cried out after the disappearing figure of James Moriarty.

He attempted to stand but his legs gave way. He began to crawl after Moriarty on his hands and knees, but his vision was blurred and cloudy. He knew he couldn't last out much longer. But he didn't trust Moriarty...he had to get to a hospital himself. Had to save John. Determined, he continued to drag himself along, the gravel agonising against his open wound and a trail of blood left in his wake. But within a few minutes he found his efforts wasted as he collapsed on his back, unable to continue. He closed his eyes...within seconds he'd drifted into unconsciousness.

In the distance he heard Sherlock crying out in vain. It only made him feel more satisfied. He took of while the other car was just arriving. The men dragged Sherlock in to the back of the car, rushing off to what Moriarty called his own private hospital wing.

James went home, took a shower and got into a new suit. He had given someone a "Get well" card and ordered that person to put it on the table next to Sherlock.

Sherlock had been given some bloodpacks though his wounds were not stitched. Some steri strips were attached to keep the blood from gushing out. He was laid in a dark room with no windows. Only a few monitors controlling his heartbeat.

Inside of the card:
"Dear Sherlock,
It had been a pleasure meeting you again.
Please do not attempt to escape and find John.
I'll let you (and him) go when the time is right.

Get well soon.

James Moriarty. Xoxo

PS: Don't forget my people need to be out of jail by the end of this week.

Sherlock awoke in the darkened room, feeling a little groggy. He felt a dull ache in his chest and a throbbing in his head. He lay for a moment with his eyes half open, recalling recent events and deduced he must now be lying in Moriarty's 'hospital'. Slowly, he pulled his arms back and pushed himself to a sitting position. He winced with the pain still in his chest and looked down to inspect his wounds, shoddily repaired.

"Some hospital this is." he muttered, and looked around him, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. The only sources of light in the room came from underneath the door, and the bleeping machine he was apparently hooked up to. Sherlock got out of bed fully now, dangling his legs over the side. He was still fully dressed but with the blood stains on his shirt now matted and dried. His feet hit the floor and he felt something soft beneath them. With some effort he stretched down his hand and grabbed the item - it was his coat. He checked the pockets for his phone. He found it, but not in the same pocket he had left it in. It had obviously been taken out and tampered with in some way. Bugged perhaps. It made sense that Moriarty would want to monitor his phone calls. He pulled up John's phone number then hesitated...thought better of it.

He glanced towards the door. It would be locked of course. It was then he noticed something on the table next to the bed. A card. He picked it up, and used the light from his phone to read it. He smirked. He had to appreciate the genius of his nemesis. He really was rather good. Turning back to his phone, Sherlock searched for the entry in his phone book under 'James Moriarty', and fired off a text message:

Got your card. It's very touching. Thank you. What do you expect me to do next? -SH

He'd soon be visiting his dear friend again, though he decided to give him some "alone time." for now. He didn't want to come across importunate any way. He was at one of his houses, busy sending e-mails and plotting out some other crimes. And he had a meeting with one of those governmental representatives. Urgh, so boring.

As his phone buzzed he didn't even had to think twice. He glanced at the clock... Couldn't be anybody else, he thought before lazily grabbing his phone and opening the new message. A grin parted his lips and he slowly shook his head before replying. Silly Sherlock, he thought.

Rest. You'll need it.

JM. Xx

Sherlock read the message and frowned. He couldn't just sit there and wait for orders from Moriarty. He wouldn't. He was too good for that. He would escape and find John himself. He grimaced as he stood up off the bed, remembering his body wasn't in the same tip top shape as his mind. Never the less, he was still determined that some immediate course of action had to be taken.

First of all, he unplugged himself from the machine. Then he turned his attention to his clothes. There were a still a couple of buttons remaining on his bloodied shirt, which he began to gingerly fasten, then he reached for his coat and threw it on, doing up the buttons. He must look almost presentable now, he thought to himself as he brushed some dirt off the sleeve and perked up his collar.

Finally he walked towards the door. It was, as expected, locked, but the yellow beam of light that shone from underneath it was tempting, oh so tempting. Sherlock crouched down in front of the door handle and began to inspect the lock, before digging into the left side of his jacket where he had a hidden pocket containing a bendy piece of wire. He contorted it to the shape he required and turned his full attention to picking the lock that held him prisoner.

By the time Sherlock had reached the door Moriarty had already been informed about the detached heart monitor. So typically Sherlock to not sit and wait like that.
He should have known better though. Moriarty lifted himself out of the car he'd been sitting in, finding himself right in front of the hopsital Sherlock was in.

He wasn't going to text him, nor was he going to interrupt his actions.
He'd just stand there and wait outside of Sherlock's door, though he made sure he wasn't interrupting the sunlight from going under the door.
He was not going to give his presence away that easily. Though, Moriarty didn't even need to be there, Sherlock was surrounded by people working for him.

It took Sherlock less than five minutes to pick the lock and with a satisfying 'click' he heard the handle turn, and the sunlight burst through the ajar door into the darkened room. He didn't open the door immediately. He had no idea what was on the other side but he'd presumed Moriarty wouldn't be so stupid as to leave him without an armed guard somewhere nearby. He also knew that Moriarty wanted him alive so if he got caught, at worst it would be more torture and imprisonment...at best, a chance of escape, revenge and rescuing John. Either way, he couldn't just sit there.

He slowly opened the door, millimetre by millimetre...squinting against the brightness of the light, giving his eyes time to adjust so he could try and make out what was on the other side. Nothing so far...he opened it a little further. The room was obviously in some kind of corridor...he opened it a little wider...there was a door on the opposite side and slightly to the right...a little further...to the left the corridor turned a corner...a little more...

He now stood with practically his whole face framed in the doorway. He couldn't see anyone out there in the corridor, although he was painfully aware of the fact that his immediate periferal vision to the left and right was blocked...and if anyone was indeed standing there...they would already be well aware of his presence. Knowing it was a risk he had to take, Sherlock opened the door completely and took a step outside.

Moriarty was leaning in against the wall. He'd seen every motion the door had made. Adorable, Sherlock's caution was, at least. Patiently he waited for Sherlock to step out in to the light. It took him longer then James had expected though. He blames it on Sherlock's wounds.

"Ah, I see you're better already." he welcomed Sherlock with a smile once the detective had stepped out from his room. Moriarty observed him close; coat, collar up... clearly planning to escape. Tsk tsk, not so clever. He had warned him not to. "You weren't planning on leaving, were you?" He said rhetorically. With a sigh he shook his head. "Tut tut tut, I told you not to do so." He spoke in a high voice while removing himself from the wall, standing more tall.

As Sherlock stepped through the door he was immediately aware of a figure hugging the wall to his left. He spun round to be faced with the grinning Moriarty once again. He had to admit he was a little surprised, and impressed, that it was Moriarty himself and not some hired thug. All the same, he rolled his eyes and cursed at having been caught.

"Damn it." he muttered. "Might have known it wouldn't be that easy. That'd be no fun for you right?"