Notes: more beating ---- He can feel the bruises beginning to form on his chest and he wonders, absurdly, if they will look like those that form on Sherlock’s corpses. The detective will want to study them, Lestrade knows, when this is all over. The image floats unbidden across his mind - Sherlock, curled up next to him on the bed, elegant fingers tracing the welts that crisscross Lestrade’s chest, murmuring something about the speed at which the riding crop hit him; the force with which it was applied. He’d probably deduce from that Moriarty’s shoe size or what he had for breakfast that day. It’d fascinate him, and Lestrade can see him, piercing eyes wide with wonder and lips parted ever so slightly, drinking in the scene before him. Lestrade, vulnerable and quiet under his probing fingers, his body a road-map of Moriarty - oh, yes, Sherlock would find that fascinating indeed
( ... )
Re: Fill, 3a/?morganstuartAugust 6 2011, 20:52:46 UTC
There are so many things to adore about this, I don't know where to start. My favourite, I think, is the notion that Lestrade sees himself as buying time: the longer he can make this last, he can prolong his own ordeal, the less others (especially Sherlock) suffer. This is Lestrade at his very essence as practical protector, and you've captured him beautifully.
There's nothing about this I don't love. I bow to you, anon!
Warnings for this part: choking. Many thanks to those of you who have left comments - you are all so encouraging. Thanks also to my beta for this section, who shall remain nameless until I decide to de-anon. ---- The rope is next, and that serves to stamp out Lestrade’s mirth quickly enough.
Moriarty doesn’t speak through it all - doesn’t need to. He’s working, Lestrade realizes, and he can’t be bothered to interrupt the art he is creating with something so pedestrian as words. It’s another comparison to Sherlock that he has to push forcibly from his mind
( ... )
Moriarty comes around to the front of the chair and bends at the waist, too close for Lestrade’s liking - close enough that the DI catches a whiff of fresh soap from the man’s hair, and the scent is jarring. Moriarty, consulting criminal, madder quite possibly than even Sherlock and the man who recruited unwilling suicide bombers because he was bored, deigning to take something so human as a shower. His eyes fixate on Lestrade’s neck for some moments - seconds or minutes, he can’t tell - and he runs the tip of his tongue across his lips, reminiscent of a snake
( ... )
It’s too late - Moriarty has taken his silence for confirmation of his first guess and is drawing back, a slow smile beginning to bloom on his face.
“How dear. The world’s only consulting detective - and the only person on the planet who uses your first name. Isn’t that right? Oh, how wonderfully cliche and so very Sherlock. It’s not good enough for him to simply follow - he has to lead. Forge his own path.” Moriarty draws closer. “Now you see, Greg, why he and I are so similar. Why he would ever waste time on someone as unremarkable as you - well, when I’m done with you and he’s seen my work, he’ll be wondering the very same thing.
“So, Greg, what shall I do to you next? What do you think Sherlock will like?” There’s a clatter on the table, and a moment later Moriarty says, “I’m a bit partial to this, myself.”
Something is pressing into Lestrade’s neck. It’s only when he feels the sharp prick of his skin and sees a glint out of the corner of his eye that he realizes it’s a knife.
Oh good god, the knifeplay is coming! I adore knifeplay so much I'm so sorry Lestrade but I really really want this!
I think this is really well written, I absolutely love your Lestrade and how brave and determined he is as well as your Moriarty and how cheeky and dangerously playful he can be. Wonderful! Can't wait for more!
I haven't, actually, to be honest. I'm more focused on trying to get into Moriarty's head at the moment, but when I'm finished it will eventually be posted, de-anon'd, and titled :)
Re: Fill, 4b/?morganstuartAugust 8 2011, 20:15:12 UTC
I love your writing: His head is tilted back and he’s slammed his teeth together so hard that they feel about to crack; he hears, distantly, muffled by the pounding in his ears, strangled whimpers that skitter up the scale until they are indistinguishable from a child’s. It takes several moments for him to realize that they come from his own throat and he clamps down on them furiously, drawing on the last of his reserves to grind out a sentence because it is infinitely better than the plaintive noises that are alien to his ear. <- Just gorgeous!
I really appreciate how courageous and yet human your Lestrade is. This just keeps getting more intense and more amazing.
Warning: severing of a body part and language. Thank you all for the feedback and thanks to my nameless-for-now beta. --- And for some reason, that’s when it hits Lestrade - all the pieces fall into place and he realizes that he’s been spending too much time around Sherlock, because the first thing he thinks is, oh, elegant.
The next thing he thinks is, shit, and that’s much more fitting.
“What?” Moriarty demands, because a slow grin has spread across Lestrade’s face and that’s probably not a good reaction to someone holding a knife to your throat. “What is it you find so amusing?”
“You - the fact that you’re just as fucked up as Sherlock says,” Lestrade giggles to himself. “I mean, you have to admit that he’s got a flair for the dramatic and you’re never really sure if what he’s telling you is real, but this is really too good. He didn’t quite give you enough credit for your insanity. You’re in love with him.
“Well, not really, I mean, you haven’t really got the faintest idea what love means, do you? I suppose “obsessed” is the
( ... )
Re: Fill, 5a/?wastingyourgumAugust 10 2011, 04:14:04 UTC
A terrible, awful, unwise thought occurs to him.
He’s never been able to really say no to terrible, awful, unwise thoughts.
“No, I suppose not,” he whispers, and then his lips twist into a terrible, awful, unwise smile. “I used up all my screaming with Sherlock last night.”
The knife stills, which means that he’s given the man pause - good - but when Moriarty speaks next he sounds unimpressed. “Well, that may be the case, dear Greg, but you are mine now in a way that you can never be his - and I intend to be the one to make you scream
( ... )
Warning: severing of a body part ---- There’s nothing quick and easy about it, no sudden slice that takes off the digit and leaves him numb with shock before the pain has a chance to set in. Instead, Moriarty saws at the finger, gripping the tip of it firmly in his fist as Lestrade reflexively tries to yank away. The madman watches impassively as blood spurts from the finger with each sure sweep of the blade. Some of it splatters his wrist; most of it ends up on Lestrade’s clothing. The knife goes through tissue and muscle and it hurts, God, does it ever - thick tendrils of pain shoot up Lestrade’s arm and his stomach threatens to rebel at the sight of his finger slowly being separated from the rest of his body but he can’t bring himself to look away
( ... )
Re: Fill, 5b/?wastingyourgumAugust 10 2011, 09:46:31 UTC
Ewww - icky! Poor Lestrade! Unless help shows up quickly that finger's gone for good! (Too much to hope Jim packs it in ice - and I would love to see Sherlock's reaction to his 'present')
( ... )
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----
He can feel the bruises beginning to form on his chest and he wonders, absurdly, if they will look like those that form on Sherlock’s corpses. The detective will want to study them, Lestrade knows, when this is all over. The image floats unbidden across his mind - Sherlock, curled up next to him on the bed, elegant fingers tracing the welts that crisscross Lestrade’s chest, murmuring something about the speed at which the riding crop hit him; the force with which it was applied. He’d probably deduce from that Moriarty’s shoe size or what he had for breakfast that day. It’d fascinate him, and Lestrade can see him, piercing eyes wide with wonder and lips parted ever so slightly, drinking in the scene before him. Lestrade, vulnerable and quiet under his probing fingers, his body a road-map of Moriarty - oh, yes, Sherlock would find that fascinating indeed ( ... )
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There's nothing about this I don't love. I bow to you, anon!
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----
The rope is next, and that serves to stamp out Lestrade’s mirth quickly enough.
Moriarty doesn’t speak through it all - doesn’t need to. He’s working, Lestrade realizes, and he can’t be bothered to interrupt the art he is creating with something so pedestrian as words. It’s another comparison to Sherlock that he has to push forcibly from his mind ( ... )
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“How dear. The world’s only consulting detective - and the only person on the planet who uses your first name. Isn’t that right? Oh, how wonderfully cliche and so very Sherlock. It’s not good enough for him to simply follow - he has to lead. Forge his own path.” Moriarty draws closer. “Now you see, Greg, why he and I are so similar. Why he would ever waste time on someone as unremarkable as you - well, when I’m done with you and he’s seen my work, he’ll be wondering the very same thing.
“So, Greg, what shall I do to you next? What do you think Sherlock will like?” There’s a clatter on the table, and a moment later Moriarty says, “I’m a bit partial to this, myself.”
Something is pressing into Lestrade’s neck. It’s only when he feels the sharp prick of his skin and sees a glint out of the corner of his eye that he realizes it’s a knife.
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I think this is really well written, I absolutely love your Lestrade and how brave and determined he is as well as your Moriarty and how cheeky and dangerously playful he can be. Wonderful! Can't wait for more!
Have you thought about a title yet by any chance?
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I really appreciate how courageous and yet human your Lestrade is. This just keeps getting more intense and more amazing.
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---
And for some reason, that’s when it hits Lestrade - all the pieces fall into place and he realizes that he’s been spending too much time around Sherlock, because the first thing he thinks is, oh, elegant.
The next thing he thinks is, shit, and that’s much more fitting.
“What?” Moriarty demands, because a slow grin has spread across Lestrade’s face and that’s probably not a good reaction to someone holding a knife to your throat. “What is it you find so amusing?”
“You - the fact that you’re just as fucked up as Sherlock says,” Lestrade giggles to himself. “I mean, you have to admit that he’s got a flair for the dramatic and you’re never really sure if what he’s telling you is real, but this is really too good. He didn’t quite give you enough credit for your insanity. You’re in love with him.
“Well, not really, I mean, you haven’t really got the faintest idea what love means, do you? I suppose “obsessed” is the ( ... )
Reply
He’s never been able to really say no to terrible, awful, unwise thoughts.
“No, I suppose not,” he whispers, and then his lips twist into a terrible, awful, unwise smile. “I used up all my screaming with Sherlock last night.”
The knife stills, which means that he’s given the man pause - good - but when Moriarty speaks next he sounds unimpressed. “Well, that may be the case, dear Greg, but you are mine now in a way that you can never be his - and I intend to be the one to make you scream ( ... )
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----
There’s nothing quick and easy about it, no sudden slice that takes off the digit and leaves him numb with shock before the pain has a chance to set in. Instead, Moriarty saws at the finger, gripping the tip of it firmly in his fist as Lestrade reflexively tries to yank away. The madman watches impassively as blood spurts from the finger with each sure sweep of the blade. Some of it splatters his wrist; most of it ends up on Lestrade’s clothing. The knife goes through tissue and muscle and it hurts, God, does it ever - thick tendrils of pain shoot up Lestrade’s arm and his stomach threatens to rebel at the sight of his finger slowly being separated from the rest of his body but he can’t bring himself to look away ( ... )
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I suspect Jim's not nearly done yet though...
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