(no subject)
Title: Dinner
Characters: Holmes and Moriarty
Word Count: 1401
Series: Training the Pet
Rating: Adult for drug use and force
Warnings: Drug use, slash
Summary: Moriarty asks a favour of a friend. Not his own friend. Part 5 in the series
The phone was delivered an hour after Jim left Sherlock. Prepaid, nondescript, and entirely locked to one number. As Sherlock learned within the first five minutes. He also learned that the entire unit had been glued together so there would be no altering it to suit his needs, such as the need to contact Lestrade and get himself released. Or, most importantly, contacting John. While Moriarty had made no mention beyond the few jabs and verbal pokes, Sherlock was acutely aware of the time Jim spent with him, and how much he wasn't there. Was he merely sitting outside the door, waiting, or was his time better spent elsewhere. An elsewhere that involved explosives and one military doctor with more patience than a human being had the right to possess.
The tea was cold by the time he took a sip, badly brewed and weak. Forcing himself to down what remained, Sherlock thought fondly of the sugar cubes as he turned the phone over in his hand, careful not to press any of the buttons until he was certain he wanted to make contact. He knew he had no desire to continue this game. Not even as it seemed the blood in his veins dried and crystallized, turning cold and sharp in his veins.
Laying on his side, staring at the plate, he could make out every single remaining granule of sugar. Sixteen in total. All microscopic, nothing more than bits of thoughts that might once have been sugar, yet they taunted him, making him crave that which he couldn't have.
Sherlock picked up the phone.
How long do you plan to carry on with this. SH
Phone in hand, Holmes lay there and stared at those tiny flecks that had once been processed sugar, waiting for the phone in his hand to vibrate. The minutes ticked by and there was no sound from the phone, not even the tiniest hint of a vibration.
He checked the volume, made sure it was set to vibrate, wondered if it had all been a ruse. Perhaps him hitting send on the text had done something horrific, making Sherlock the instrument of destruction unbeknownst to him. He tried again.
If I gave in to beg, how would I do that if you aren't answering? SH
It was exactly nineteen minutes and sixteen seconds before the phone vibrated with an incoming message. It was short, sweet and to the point.
I'm having dinner. Could this wait until later?
Sherlock let the phone fall to the floor, knowing he had played directly into Jim's hand, seeking him out and being denied that companionship, even in text form. Despite that, Sherlock would not accept that he had won. Not yet. Not even as he lapped at the crumbs on the plate, savoring the sweet taste backed by whatever dish soap had been used to wash the plate and not well rinsed off.
*************
While Holmes lay on his side, aching and trying to ignore the cramping that had begun in his bowels, Jim was doing exactly what he said he'd be doing. He was settled in for a late supper. After a day of following the good doctor on his mad hunt for his lost companion, the truth was that Jim had worked up quite the appetite. He might have thought John had as well, but he seemed to be ignoring the dish before him, staring resolutely out the window before him.
It amused him that, yet again, John had ended his days travel in this place. Every day he made his way here, greeted politely though worriedly by a staff who asked, each and every time, if there was word on Sherlock. It would seem that Watson wasn't the only one missing the errant consulting detective.
It wasn't the first time Jim found himself enjoying a meal in the establishment. Many a night Holmes and his little companion had come here. One of them to eat and the other to stare out the window. Watching. Always watching. Now it was John that sat in the seat facing the window, watching the world beyond as if he might find answers to his problem, find the solution to his loss.
There were no answers, not out that window though he was looking in the right direction as Jim rose from his seat, moving to take the on facing the restaurant that Watson often took. The positions and what it meant amused him.
"Now now, Doctor. I wouldn't advise that," he said, even as John reached inside his jacket. "We're in a public place and I would hate to see you arrested for such a flagrant violation of the law. I only wish to speak with you a moment."
At that moment his phone vibrated for the second time of the evening. He ignored it for a moment, watching John closely.
"I've come to ask a favour of you, Doctor."
"You can bloody well go to hell. Where is he?!"
"Such language in a public place," he chided. "It isn't appropriate, nor will such ill manners get you very far with me. Do try and behave civilly and I will explain a bit."
The tension was a physical thing weaving its way around them but at length John returned both hands to the table, clutching them together until he was white knuckled. Eyes that so often held a puppy's gaze bore into Jim with the cold determination of a soldier prepared to kill.
It well sent a shiver up the length of Moriarty's spine, that gaze did.
"Fine. Where is Sherlock Holmes," he asked in a low, dark voice.
"He is doing... rather well, all things considered. I'm taking care of him, that is all you need concern yourself with."
With that he held up one finger, sending a text back to Sherlock, whom he now knew was waiting for him. Perhaps impatiently. Oh the night was only getting better and better.
"Now, as I was saying, he is where he needs to be currently. I've come to ask you a favour."
"A... You arrogant bastard," John growled, leaning forward, his voice rumbling through him. Such a delightful attack dog Sherlock had found.
"If you're going to keep speaking to me that way, I will be forced to leave. Now, do you wish to hear my request, or shall I leave now?'
John's breathing was labored, cheeks flushed and his eyes beginning to show a hint that the anger was getting out of control. "What. Favour?!"
"I need you to stop looking for Sherlock. Trust that he will be returned to you, safely and in one piece, when the time is right. Until then, he and I have a few things to work out. While most believe he's finally gone off the deep end, and who can truly blame them, if you continue looking for him, I will be forced to take matters into my own hands."
"Such as," John asked with a snort. "Making me disappear as well?"
Jim didn't answer right away, taking his time to send another text before answering. "No. I will ensure that your dear friend, and mine, is found guilty of a killing spree that might well make Jack the Ripper look like a bedtime story. The force already believes he is a sociopath waiting for a spree, so please don't force my hand on this, Doctor."
Even as he said it, a small red light appeared in the center of the table. It slowly inched towards John, tracing up his jumper and coming to rest on his brow.
"Now, if you will excuse me, Doctor, my house guest seems impatient for his dinner."
He rose, smiling down on Watson, loving that scowl that graced his features. A sniper's laser site on his brow and still, Jim was certain, he was calculating the odds of stopping him before he reached the door.
"Goodnight, Doctor. Enjoy the rest of your meal."
He walked out, knowing that John wouldn't move until that red dot was gone. He couldn't save Sherlock if he was dead.
Whistling cheerfully as he went, Jim texted Sherlock as he walked.
On my way home, Darling. Would you like a cup of tea when I arrive?
Crossing the road, he waited in the shadows for the phone to vibrate in return, laughing gleefully at that simple response.
Yes, thank you. SH
Characters: Holmes and Moriarty
Word Count: 1401
Series: Training the Pet
Rating: Adult for drug use and force
Warnings: Drug use, slash
Summary: Moriarty asks a favour of a friend. Not his own friend. Part 5 in the series
The phone was delivered an hour after Jim left Sherlock. Prepaid, nondescript, and entirely locked to one number. As Sherlock learned within the first five minutes. He also learned that the entire unit had been glued together so there would be no altering it to suit his needs, such as the need to contact Lestrade and get himself released. Or, most importantly, contacting John. While Moriarty had made no mention beyond the few jabs and verbal pokes, Sherlock was acutely aware of the time Jim spent with him, and how much he wasn't there. Was he merely sitting outside the door, waiting, or was his time better spent elsewhere. An elsewhere that involved explosives and one military doctor with more patience than a human being had the right to possess.
The tea was cold by the time he took a sip, badly brewed and weak. Forcing himself to down what remained, Sherlock thought fondly of the sugar cubes as he turned the phone over in his hand, careful not to press any of the buttons until he was certain he wanted to make contact. He knew he had no desire to continue this game. Not even as it seemed the blood in his veins dried and crystallized, turning cold and sharp in his veins.
Laying on his side, staring at the plate, he could make out every single remaining granule of sugar. Sixteen in total. All microscopic, nothing more than bits of thoughts that might once have been sugar, yet they taunted him, making him crave that which he couldn't have.
Sherlock picked up the phone.
How long do you plan to carry on with this. SH
Phone in hand, Holmes lay there and stared at those tiny flecks that had once been processed sugar, waiting for the phone in his hand to vibrate. The minutes ticked by and there was no sound from the phone, not even the tiniest hint of a vibration.
He checked the volume, made sure it was set to vibrate, wondered if it had all been a ruse. Perhaps him hitting send on the text had done something horrific, making Sherlock the instrument of destruction unbeknownst to him. He tried again.
If I gave in to beg, how would I do that if you aren't answering? SH
It was exactly nineteen minutes and sixteen seconds before the phone vibrated with an incoming message. It was short, sweet and to the point.
I'm having dinner. Could this wait until later?
Sherlock let the phone fall to the floor, knowing he had played directly into Jim's hand, seeking him out and being denied that companionship, even in text form. Despite that, Sherlock would not accept that he had won. Not yet. Not even as he lapped at the crumbs on the plate, savoring the sweet taste backed by whatever dish soap had been used to wash the plate and not well rinsed off.
*************
While Holmes lay on his side, aching and trying to ignore the cramping that had begun in his bowels, Jim was doing exactly what he said he'd be doing. He was settled in for a late supper. After a day of following the good doctor on his mad hunt for his lost companion, the truth was that Jim had worked up quite the appetite. He might have thought John had as well, but he seemed to be ignoring the dish before him, staring resolutely out the window before him.
It amused him that, yet again, John had ended his days travel in this place. Every day he made his way here, greeted politely though worriedly by a staff who asked, each and every time, if there was word on Sherlock. It would seem that Watson wasn't the only one missing the errant consulting detective.
It wasn't the first time Jim found himself enjoying a meal in the establishment. Many a night Holmes and his little companion had come here. One of them to eat and the other to stare out the window. Watching. Always watching. Now it was John that sat in the seat facing the window, watching the world beyond as if he might find answers to his problem, find the solution to his loss.
There were no answers, not out that window though he was looking in the right direction as Jim rose from his seat, moving to take the on facing the restaurant that Watson often took. The positions and what it meant amused him.
"Now now, Doctor. I wouldn't advise that," he said, even as John reached inside his jacket. "We're in a public place and I would hate to see you arrested for such a flagrant violation of the law. I only wish to speak with you a moment."
At that moment his phone vibrated for the second time of the evening. He ignored it for a moment, watching John closely.
"I've come to ask a favour of you, Doctor."
"You can bloody well go to hell. Where is he?!"
"Such language in a public place," he chided. "It isn't appropriate, nor will such ill manners get you very far with me. Do try and behave civilly and I will explain a bit."
The tension was a physical thing weaving its way around them but at length John returned both hands to the table, clutching them together until he was white knuckled. Eyes that so often held a puppy's gaze bore into Jim with the cold determination of a soldier prepared to kill.
It well sent a shiver up the length of Moriarty's spine, that gaze did.
"Fine. Where is Sherlock Holmes," he asked in a low, dark voice.
"He is doing... rather well, all things considered. I'm taking care of him, that is all you need concern yourself with."
With that he held up one finger, sending a text back to Sherlock, whom he now knew was waiting for him. Perhaps impatiently. Oh the night was only getting better and better.
"Now, as I was saying, he is where he needs to be currently. I've come to ask you a favour."
"A... You arrogant bastard," John growled, leaning forward, his voice rumbling through him. Such a delightful attack dog Sherlock had found.
"If you're going to keep speaking to me that way, I will be forced to leave. Now, do you wish to hear my request, or shall I leave now?'
John's breathing was labored, cheeks flushed and his eyes beginning to show a hint that the anger was getting out of control. "What. Favour?!"
"I need you to stop looking for Sherlock. Trust that he will be returned to you, safely and in one piece, when the time is right. Until then, he and I have a few things to work out. While most believe he's finally gone off the deep end, and who can truly blame them, if you continue looking for him, I will be forced to take matters into my own hands."
"Such as," John asked with a snort. "Making me disappear as well?"
Jim didn't answer right away, taking his time to send another text before answering. "No. I will ensure that your dear friend, and mine, is found guilty of a killing spree that might well make Jack the Ripper look like a bedtime story. The force already believes he is a sociopath waiting for a spree, so please don't force my hand on this, Doctor."
Even as he said it, a small red light appeared in the center of the table. It slowly inched towards John, tracing up his jumper and coming to rest on his brow.
"Now, if you will excuse me, Doctor, my house guest seems impatient for his dinner."
He rose, smiling down on Watson, loving that scowl that graced his features. A sniper's laser site on his brow and still, Jim was certain, he was calculating the odds of stopping him before he reached the door.
"Goodnight, Doctor. Enjoy the rest of your meal."
He walked out, knowing that John wouldn't move until that red dot was gone. He couldn't save Sherlock if he was dead.
Whistling cheerfully as he went, Jim texted Sherlock as he walked.
On my way home, Darling. Would you like a cup of tea when I arrive?
Crossing the road, he waited in the shadows for the phone to vibrate in return, laughing gleefully at that simple response.
Yes, thank you. SH