Sherlock Holmes: Bleed for Me
Title: Bleed for Me
Characters/Pairing: Moriarty/Holmes (A Game Of Shadows)
Rating: R
Warning: bondage, slightly beyond canon torture, non-con suggestions (and spoilers if you somehow still have not managed to see AGoS)
Word Count: 2470
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not for profit.
Summary: Written for a kinkmeme prompt in which the incomparable tabby_stardust asked for a fic to go with this masterpiece(rather on the NSFW side).
Author's note: This is an alternative to the end of the hook scene, in which we assume Watson took a bit longer in his little gunfight, as it were, with Moran.
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“To my brother Mycroft,” Holmes answered him softly, his pain-filled whisper, with its implicit capitulation, as sweet in Moriarty’s ear as the Schubert had been moments before. He drew back once more, releasing his hold on hand and hook as he shifted upright to look over the fish he had landed. There was blood on Holmes’ hands from his struggles to keep his full weight off the hook, but, regrettably, little blood from the actual wound showed up against the burgundy fabric of his vest. And while there was pain written in his labored breathing and in the taut lines of his features, his averted eyes revealed nothing.
Not enough, a distant corner of the professor’s mind growled hungrily. “I’ve just got one more question for you,” he said aloud, keeping his tone soft and controlled. As he’d hoped, the words called the detective’s dark gaze back to him. “Which one of us is the fisherman,” he allowed the hint of a smile - the implication of the answer to his rhetorical question - to curve his mouth as he continued, “and which the trout?” Those brown eyes, however, did not acknowledge the answer. There was a slight haze of pain in them, yes, but too little of the fear and far, far too little of the defeat that ought to be there. Nowhere near enough, the logical core of his mind agreed warmly with the less distant corner.
His eyes rapidly flicked around the room, taking in the continued presence of his henchmen, the continued absence of Moran, the loose end of the rope that lay pooled in an untidy coil on the floor… That animal corner of his mind started to purr as his gaze returned, calculating, to his not entirely fallen enemy. Deliberately, he wiped the blood that had transferred itself to his right hand down the front of Holmes’ vest. Yes, he decided as that action elicited the faintest shudder of discomfort and a somewhat more pronounced crease of worry between sweat-glistened brows, there’s time.
He summoned his men closer with a peremptory gesture as he rose smoothly to his feet. He resumed his previous position before the mirror, adjusting its angle and keeping his attention firmly locked on Holmes’ reflection as he gave his men cool, concise orders. “Hoist him.” Once more he savored the look of pure agony that contorted his adversary’s features and his unrestrained cry of pain as he was again hauled up by and dangled from the hook embedded in his shoulder. “Remove his vest and shirt.” Moriarty added a cutting hand gesture over his shoulder to clarify his command as he shifted closer to the nearest wall cabinet, still keeping his eye on the mirror. It reflected Holmes’ concern and confusion (and further pain) as his upper garments were roughly knife-cut and yanked off of him. He made what faint resistance he could - to keep either his dignity or his renewed hold on the hook - but a quick, sharp nick of the knife into his right cheek soon quelled it. The echoes of the cry drawn by that cut and the renewed bite of the hook completely masked the soft sounds the shredded fabric made as it was unceremoniously dropped to the floor. “Bind him. Wrists to elbows at back.” Moriarty held back a smile of satisfaction at the startled widening of those dark eyes - the first trace of genuine fear the other man had displayed - as the henchman now used his knife to cut two lengths of rope from the excess at his companion’s feet. Another two quick gestures added directions to one subordinate to lower their captive slightly and to the other as to how to subdue any struggles. A temporarily stunning, though not damaging, blow to the nose rendered Holmes somewhat more pliable to the man, who quickly pulled the detective’s hands away (again) from the hook and wrenched them around and up behind his back before efficiently, if inelegantly, binding them as instructed.
Better, the beast inside Moriarty crooned as his gaze traced Holmes’ reflection, lavishing attention on the lovely contrast between pain-whitened skin and the deep red of the blood that trickled from the bound man’s nose and the cut in his cheek… and flowed in an untidy ribbon from his shoulder, mingling with sweat as it started to outline the heaving breast below… But still not enough! With effort, which he managed to conceal, the professor tore his gaze from that mesmerizing image. Feeling the first prickling of the excitement he had not allowed himself during their initial “questioning,” he opened the nearest cupboard and withdrew two neat coils of clean, high-quality rope and one folded strip of soft, dark cloth. He felt an anticipatory smile curving his lips and he allowed it this time, knowing the display of emotion would unnerve Holmes far more than his customary reserve. Draping his acquisitions tidily over one arm, he finally turned and approached his adversary once more.
A quick motion of his free hand instructed the man holding Holmes aloft to lower him until his feet could just rest flat on the floor. He paused a few feet away to confirm that the bound detective would, for the meantime, be too concerned with keeping himself upright (and his weight off the hook) to engage in any vigorous resistance. To further discourage it, Moriarty deliberately widened his smile, filling it and his gaze with menacing promise as he handed the cloth on his arm to his unoccupied subordinate and shifted the rope he carried from forearm to hands.
“Wha…?” Holmes gasped the beginning of an interrogative as his wide, pain-filled eyes took in the tableau before them. “What…mo…” He could manage neither breath nor strength to finish his question, but the delightful tone of fear in those gasped words made their full meaning clear enough. That tone (and the memory of that one, glorious, full-throated scream that had echoed through the entire factory) caused the professor a momentary pause as he weighed cost and benefit, but he finally motioned to his men. The pleasure of his nemesis’ unbridled fear, amplified by his inability to distract himself from it with his customary glibness, would far outweigh the enjoyment of his unbridled cries. “Ah-mmph.” Holmes’ cry as the man who held the rope gave it a small tug was quickly muffled as the other man exploited that opening to gag him with the dusky strip of fabric.
Ah… Somehow, he had forgotten aesthetic pleasure in his consideration. As he spread out and arranged the rope he held in both hands, Moriarty admired the look of the gag: the way its deep color contrasted with pale skin tone and complemented the dark-bright shade of blood… How it almost matched the color of the bound man’s hair, thus serving to perfectly frame those wide brown eyes… and the steadily growing fear in them as his bonds took shape before him. The professor watched calculation fight an inevitably losing battle with that apprehension as he approached, then moved around his enemy. He observed Holmes shifting his balance on his feet and gave the rope that was attached to the hook a warning tug to preemptively still the contemplated struggle. Taking a hint, the man who held that rope pulled it fractionally, forcing the detective onto the tips of his toes. The other henchman took his cues and accepted one end of the bonds. He swiftly assisted in wrapping them around their captive before passing his end back to his master. With exaggerated care, Moriarty tied the ends, enjoying Holmes’ reflexive jerk of resistance and the equally involuntary cry at the increased pain the action caused. When he finished the last knot, he reached around and adjusted the ropes, relishing the feel of their grain against his fingertips and the way his digits glided in the fine sheen of sweat… Indulging in a brush or two of thumb or pinky against a cold-firmed nipple… Taking in every twitch and shiver of distaste at the direct contact as he perfected the arrangement of the bonds.
There. Satisfied that the ropes were in good order, he circled around to face his prisoner, stepping back to get a complete view. Perfect. It was exactly one image of his opponent he had entertained off and on since their first face-to-face meeting. Two neat bundles of rope crossed Holmes’ torso, forming an ellipse that framed his pectorals before cutting across his taut biceps. Both sets of muscles rippled and tensed as they strained against their bonds. The blood still running from the wound in his shoulder began to stain them, even as it continued to appealingly paint his flesh. His face was bowed, likely to escape the emotion Moriarty could not prevent from glittering in his keen gaze. A quick signal to his subordinate had the man pulling the bound detective’s head back by his hair, baring his throat. Later, the professor calmed the animal desire to sink his teeth into that vulnerable column. First things first.
As the grip on his hair loosened and Holmes lowered his chin, Moriarty locked gazes with him. He saw the glaze that filled those usually proud, calculating brown eyes and the fretful working of those typically clever lips against the gag… watched the filtered light glimmer across the blood on his cheek as the bound man minutely shook his head from side to side. More… The professor made somewhat jerky hand signs to his men and then drew a slow, steadying breath as they obeyed him: one man releasing the rope connected to the hook, and the other pulling the hook out. Holmes gave one muffled grunt of pain as the sharp metal was pulled from his body, and an almost musical whimper when he stumbled forward and into the chair, jarring his injured shoulder.
“Leave us,” Moriarty ordered as he accepted the hook, free of rope, from the man who held it. It might have been wiser on the whole to retain their presence (and assistance), but he was uncertain of his ability to maintain absolute control of himself. He could not afford for his men to see him that way… nor was he sure he wished to share any of the pleasure that was to come. He drew in another deep breath as he approached his captive from behind and then reached out to pull him into his arms.
Pain... fear... revulsion... Moriarty had already seen all of it in Holmes’ bound form, but now he could fully sense it as he pulled that form close against him. He could feel it. It was there in the heat that radiated from Holmes' body to his own... in the tremor of that weakened, wounded frame against him: the shudder the other man could not repress. The professor felt it in the race of the pulse against his fingers as he gripped his captive's throat and drew his head back, closer against him... in the arrhythmia of that beat as he caressed the hook he held in his other hand against the front of the detective's trousers, darkening their fabric with the man’s own blood. He could hear it in the little sounds Holmes made: the exquisite noises that neither the gag nor the man’s will could entirely hold back.
And he could smell it - almost taste it - in the other man's perspiration and blood. Moriarty's lips parted as he drew in a deep, slow breath, inhaling and savoring that salty, tangy, positively intoxicating scent.
"Holmes..." His exhalation became a purr of his captive's name against his sweat-damp hair. He wondered, as Holmes flinched and shuddered again, deliciously, against him, if the detective could read as clearly what was behind his captor's near-feverish heat... behind the throbbing of his pulse through his entire body. Yes, he decided, breathing the hint of a laugh into Holmes' ear. If the refinement of those glorious, muffled cries as the bound man's weak struggles brought his posterior into firmer contact with the epicenter of Moriarty's heightened temperature and circulation was any indication, then the answer was decidedly "yes."
"I believe, Holmes," the professor said softly, pleased that no hint of fever could be read in his voice, "that, before I inhibited your speech, you had a question for me." He slowly moved the hook in his right hand upward, tracing the curve of a hipbone before nipping at the quivering flesh above the waistband of Holmes' trousers. The shiver and muted whimper that action elicited made it fractionally harder to maintain an even tone as he continued, "pain rather got in the way of coherency, I'm afraid..." He added to that pain, slipping the hook into the other man's waistband and drawing a shallow cut across the right buttock, from hip to tailbone. "...but I think the essence of the question was 'what more could I possibly want from you?'" So much more...
Unbidden, his mind began to play out scenarios. Draw hook back sharply, rending trousers. Push Holmes forward over seat. Cry of pain as shoulder hits arm of chair. Further cries and flow of blood as hook bites into flesh below tailbone. Use that blood as lubricant and thrust hard and fast into resisting, writhing form…
His breath caught as he cut off the imagined sensation of pain-tinged pleasure. It was an enticing image, and would quell the animal lust within him, but it was not quite enough… Trace spine, then collarbone with hook, teasing pressure only, before inserting once more into shoulder wound. Softly draw line of blood downward before circling and nicking nipple with tip. Maintain silence and continue random alteration of pain and promise of pain until confusion whips fear to fever pitch. Tear trouser fastenings one by one. Left hand down to open trousers. Use curve of hook to gently withdraw Holmes’ manhood before taking it in left hand. Begin long, slow, pleasurable strokes to member. Simultaneously move hook to caress navel, unmarred nipple, nervously bobbing Adam’s apple, cut in cheek, shell of ear. Lick to and honeyed whisper in same ear: how beautiful he is, how sweet he tastes, how much sweeter he’ll be beneath me. Tears falling from wide, denial-filled eyes, as he’s brought to unwilling release. Once, and once more…
Moriarty fought back the flow of simulation as he slid the hook back again, deepening the cut he’d already made, and infinitesimally tightened his grip on Holmes' throat. Pain, fear, and blood he’d already drawn from his adversary, but not yet shame, submission, and tears… “So very much more,” his lips shaped the words inaudibly against his captive’s ear. But to start with... "I want you to bleed for me," he crooned, before a violent crash overhead heralded a rain of masonry… and the regrettable abortion of his plans.
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Dude... seriously out of practice here...
So... a bit of work & more than a bit of thought went in here to including/explaining details of the artwork (like the blood on Holmes' cheek and under his nose, which weren't there in the movie scene with the hook and that scene seemed the most reasonable setting...) and how, in the aftermath of the hook scene, Holmes' clothing could be removed without the red notebook being noticed (I'm assuming the henchmen are far less observant than Moriarty). Hope that worked for everyone. I'm not a big fan of plot holes, especially in my own work.
Characters/Pairing: Moriarty/Holmes (A Game Of Shadows)
Rating: R
Warning: bondage, slightly beyond canon torture, non-con suggestions (and spoilers if you somehow still have not managed to see AGoS)
Word Count: 2470
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not for profit.
Summary: Written for a kinkmeme prompt in which the incomparable tabby_stardust asked for a fic to go with this masterpiece(rather on the NSFW side).
Author's note: This is an alternative to the end of the hook scene, in which we assume Watson took a bit longer in his little gunfight, as it were, with Moran.
______________________________________________________
“To my brother Mycroft,” Holmes answered him softly, his pain-filled whisper, with its implicit capitulation, as sweet in Moriarty’s ear as the Schubert had been moments before. He drew back once more, releasing his hold on hand and hook as he shifted upright to look over the fish he had landed. There was blood on Holmes’ hands from his struggles to keep his full weight off the hook, but, regrettably, little blood from the actual wound showed up against the burgundy fabric of his vest. And while there was pain written in his labored breathing and in the taut lines of his features, his averted eyes revealed nothing.
Not enough, a distant corner of the professor’s mind growled hungrily. “I’ve just got one more question for you,” he said aloud, keeping his tone soft and controlled. As he’d hoped, the words called the detective’s dark gaze back to him. “Which one of us is the fisherman,” he allowed the hint of a smile - the implication of the answer to his rhetorical question - to curve his mouth as he continued, “and which the trout?” Those brown eyes, however, did not acknowledge the answer. There was a slight haze of pain in them, yes, but too little of the fear and far, far too little of the defeat that ought to be there. Nowhere near enough, the logical core of his mind agreed warmly with the less distant corner.
His eyes rapidly flicked around the room, taking in the continued presence of his henchmen, the continued absence of Moran, the loose end of the rope that lay pooled in an untidy coil on the floor… That animal corner of his mind started to purr as his gaze returned, calculating, to his not entirely fallen enemy. Deliberately, he wiped the blood that had transferred itself to his right hand down the front of Holmes’ vest. Yes, he decided as that action elicited the faintest shudder of discomfort and a somewhat more pronounced crease of worry between sweat-glistened brows, there’s time.
He summoned his men closer with a peremptory gesture as he rose smoothly to his feet. He resumed his previous position before the mirror, adjusting its angle and keeping his attention firmly locked on Holmes’ reflection as he gave his men cool, concise orders. “Hoist him.” Once more he savored the look of pure agony that contorted his adversary’s features and his unrestrained cry of pain as he was again hauled up by and dangled from the hook embedded in his shoulder. “Remove his vest and shirt.” Moriarty added a cutting hand gesture over his shoulder to clarify his command as he shifted closer to the nearest wall cabinet, still keeping his eye on the mirror. It reflected Holmes’ concern and confusion (and further pain) as his upper garments were roughly knife-cut and yanked off of him. He made what faint resistance he could - to keep either his dignity or his renewed hold on the hook - but a quick, sharp nick of the knife into his right cheek soon quelled it. The echoes of the cry drawn by that cut and the renewed bite of the hook completely masked the soft sounds the shredded fabric made as it was unceremoniously dropped to the floor. “Bind him. Wrists to elbows at back.” Moriarty held back a smile of satisfaction at the startled widening of those dark eyes - the first trace of genuine fear the other man had displayed - as the henchman now used his knife to cut two lengths of rope from the excess at his companion’s feet. Another two quick gestures added directions to one subordinate to lower their captive slightly and to the other as to how to subdue any struggles. A temporarily stunning, though not damaging, blow to the nose rendered Holmes somewhat more pliable to the man, who quickly pulled the detective’s hands away (again) from the hook and wrenched them around and up behind his back before efficiently, if inelegantly, binding them as instructed.
Better, the beast inside Moriarty crooned as his gaze traced Holmes’ reflection, lavishing attention on the lovely contrast between pain-whitened skin and the deep red of the blood that trickled from the bound man’s nose and the cut in his cheek… and flowed in an untidy ribbon from his shoulder, mingling with sweat as it started to outline the heaving breast below… But still not enough! With effort, which he managed to conceal, the professor tore his gaze from that mesmerizing image. Feeling the first prickling of the excitement he had not allowed himself during their initial “questioning,” he opened the nearest cupboard and withdrew two neat coils of clean, high-quality rope and one folded strip of soft, dark cloth. He felt an anticipatory smile curving his lips and he allowed it this time, knowing the display of emotion would unnerve Holmes far more than his customary reserve. Draping his acquisitions tidily over one arm, he finally turned and approached his adversary once more.
A quick motion of his free hand instructed the man holding Holmes aloft to lower him until his feet could just rest flat on the floor. He paused a few feet away to confirm that the bound detective would, for the meantime, be too concerned with keeping himself upright (and his weight off the hook) to engage in any vigorous resistance. To further discourage it, Moriarty deliberately widened his smile, filling it and his gaze with menacing promise as he handed the cloth on his arm to his unoccupied subordinate and shifted the rope he carried from forearm to hands.
“Wha…?” Holmes gasped the beginning of an interrogative as his wide, pain-filled eyes took in the tableau before them. “What…mo…” He could manage neither breath nor strength to finish his question, but the delightful tone of fear in those gasped words made their full meaning clear enough. That tone (and the memory of that one, glorious, full-throated scream that had echoed through the entire factory) caused the professor a momentary pause as he weighed cost and benefit, but he finally motioned to his men. The pleasure of his nemesis’ unbridled fear, amplified by his inability to distract himself from it with his customary glibness, would far outweigh the enjoyment of his unbridled cries. “Ah-mmph.” Holmes’ cry as the man who held the rope gave it a small tug was quickly muffled as the other man exploited that opening to gag him with the dusky strip of fabric.
Ah… Somehow, he had forgotten aesthetic pleasure in his consideration. As he spread out and arranged the rope he held in both hands, Moriarty admired the look of the gag: the way its deep color contrasted with pale skin tone and complemented the dark-bright shade of blood… How it almost matched the color of the bound man’s hair, thus serving to perfectly frame those wide brown eyes… and the steadily growing fear in them as his bonds took shape before him. The professor watched calculation fight an inevitably losing battle with that apprehension as he approached, then moved around his enemy. He observed Holmes shifting his balance on his feet and gave the rope that was attached to the hook a warning tug to preemptively still the contemplated struggle. Taking a hint, the man who held that rope pulled it fractionally, forcing the detective onto the tips of his toes. The other henchman took his cues and accepted one end of the bonds. He swiftly assisted in wrapping them around their captive before passing his end back to his master. With exaggerated care, Moriarty tied the ends, enjoying Holmes’ reflexive jerk of resistance and the equally involuntary cry at the increased pain the action caused. When he finished the last knot, he reached around and adjusted the ropes, relishing the feel of their grain against his fingertips and the way his digits glided in the fine sheen of sweat… Indulging in a brush or two of thumb or pinky against a cold-firmed nipple… Taking in every twitch and shiver of distaste at the direct contact as he perfected the arrangement of the bonds.
There. Satisfied that the ropes were in good order, he circled around to face his prisoner, stepping back to get a complete view. Perfect. It was exactly one image of his opponent he had entertained off and on since their first face-to-face meeting. Two neat bundles of rope crossed Holmes’ torso, forming an ellipse that framed his pectorals before cutting across his taut biceps. Both sets of muscles rippled and tensed as they strained against their bonds. The blood still running from the wound in his shoulder began to stain them, even as it continued to appealingly paint his flesh. His face was bowed, likely to escape the emotion Moriarty could not prevent from glittering in his keen gaze. A quick signal to his subordinate had the man pulling the bound detective’s head back by his hair, baring his throat. Later, the professor calmed the animal desire to sink his teeth into that vulnerable column. First things first.
As the grip on his hair loosened and Holmes lowered his chin, Moriarty locked gazes with him. He saw the glaze that filled those usually proud, calculating brown eyes and the fretful working of those typically clever lips against the gag… watched the filtered light glimmer across the blood on his cheek as the bound man minutely shook his head from side to side. More… The professor made somewhat jerky hand signs to his men and then drew a slow, steadying breath as they obeyed him: one man releasing the rope connected to the hook, and the other pulling the hook out. Holmes gave one muffled grunt of pain as the sharp metal was pulled from his body, and an almost musical whimper when he stumbled forward and into the chair, jarring his injured shoulder.
“Leave us,” Moriarty ordered as he accepted the hook, free of rope, from the man who held it. It might have been wiser on the whole to retain their presence (and assistance), but he was uncertain of his ability to maintain absolute control of himself. He could not afford for his men to see him that way… nor was he sure he wished to share any of the pleasure that was to come. He drew in another deep breath as he approached his captive from behind and then reached out to pull him into his arms.
Pain... fear... revulsion... Moriarty had already seen all of it in Holmes’ bound form, but now he could fully sense it as he pulled that form close against him. He could feel it. It was there in the heat that radiated from Holmes' body to his own... in the tremor of that weakened, wounded frame against him: the shudder the other man could not repress. The professor felt it in the race of the pulse against his fingers as he gripped his captive's throat and drew his head back, closer against him... in the arrhythmia of that beat as he caressed the hook he held in his other hand against the front of the detective's trousers, darkening their fabric with the man’s own blood. He could hear it in the little sounds Holmes made: the exquisite noises that neither the gag nor the man’s will could entirely hold back.
And he could smell it - almost taste it - in the other man's perspiration and blood. Moriarty's lips parted as he drew in a deep, slow breath, inhaling and savoring that salty, tangy, positively intoxicating scent.
"Holmes..." His exhalation became a purr of his captive's name against his sweat-damp hair. He wondered, as Holmes flinched and shuddered again, deliciously, against him, if the detective could read as clearly what was behind his captor's near-feverish heat... behind the throbbing of his pulse through his entire body. Yes, he decided, breathing the hint of a laugh into Holmes' ear. If the refinement of those glorious, muffled cries as the bound man's weak struggles brought his posterior into firmer contact with the epicenter of Moriarty's heightened temperature and circulation was any indication, then the answer was decidedly "yes."
"I believe, Holmes," the professor said softly, pleased that no hint of fever could be read in his voice, "that, before I inhibited your speech, you had a question for me." He slowly moved the hook in his right hand upward, tracing the curve of a hipbone before nipping at the quivering flesh above the waistband of Holmes' trousers. The shiver and muted whimper that action elicited made it fractionally harder to maintain an even tone as he continued, "pain rather got in the way of coherency, I'm afraid..." He added to that pain, slipping the hook into the other man's waistband and drawing a shallow cut across the right buttock, from hip to tailbone. "...but I think the essence of the question was 'what more could I possibly want from you?'" So much more...
Unbidden, his mind began to play out scenarios. Draw hook back sharply, rending trousers. Push Holmes forward over seat. Cry of pain as shoulder hits arm of chair. Further cries and flow of blood as hook bites into flesh below tailbone. Use that blood as lubricant and thrust hard and fast into resisting, writhing form…
His breath caught as he cut off the imagined sensation of pain-tinged pleasure. It was an enticing image, and would quell the animal lust within him, but it was not quite enough… Trace spine, then collarbone with hook, teasing pressure only, before inserting once more into shoulder wound. Softly draw line of blood downward before circling and nicking nipple with tip. Maintain silence and continue random alteration of pain and promise of pain until confusion whips fear to fever pitch. Tear trouser fastenings one by one. Left hand down to open trousers. Use curve of hook to gently withdraw Holmes’ manhood before taking it in left hand. Begin long, slow, pleasurable strokes to member. Simultaneously move hook to caress navel, unmarred nipple, nervously bobbing Adam’s apple, cut in cheek, shell of ear. Lick to and honeyed whisper in same ear: how beautiful he is, how sweet he tastes, how much sweeter he’ll be beneath me. Tears falling from wide, denial-filled eyes, as he’s brought to unwilling release. Once, and once more…
Moriarty fought back the flow of simulation as he slid the hook back again, deepening the cut he’d already made, and infinitesimally tightened his grip on Holmes' throat. Pain, fear, and blood he’d already drawn from his adversary, but not yet shame, submission, and tears… “So very much more,” his lips shaped the words inaudibly against his captive’s ear. But to start with... "I want you to bleed for me," he crooned, before a violent crash overhead heralded a rain of masonry… and the regrettable abortion of his plans.
______________________________________________________
Dude... seriously out of practice here...
So... a bit of work & more than a bit of thought went in here to including/explaining details of the artwork (like the blood on Holmes' cheek and under his nose, which weren't there in the movie scene with the hook and that scene seemed the most reasonable setting...) and how, in the aftermath of the hook scene, Holmes' clothing could be removed without the red notebook being noticed (I'm assuming the henchmen are far less observant than Moriarty). Hope that worked for everyone. I'm not a big fan of plot holes, especially in my own work.