Sherlocked

Rose

I waited until Moriarty turned off the camera and left the room to break. Moriarty watched as his right hand man beat me, lashing at me with every device he could think to use to torture me. He started with the whip and then a length of chains that left blood pooling just under the surface of my skin. I had a gash from one end of my stomach to the other, from the whip, which took not only a strip f my dress but a strip of my skin with it. I was sure some of my ribs were broken. I felt a sharp pain every time I breathed. One of my eyes was nearly swollen shut.

I never took Moriarty for brute force, but I suspected he got more pleasure from the effect it would have on Sherlock than the pain it caused me.

Sherlock kept me sane. Part of me wanted to scream, to cry out for help even though no one would be able to hear me. But that would be weakness. If Sherlock were in my position, he would show no weakness. He would be strong and clever. And he probably wouldn’t have even gotten into this situation in the first place.

I knew, despite the walls around his heart, despite the fact that he didn’t want anyone to see the human side of him, that in some part of his heart he did have feelings for me. Maybe not love, maybe not the way I felt for him, but I knew I wasn’t alone in this.

I just hoped that would be enough to make him save me. Because frankly, I was already starting to lose hope I would make it out alive if I were on my own.

“How are you feeling, dearie?” a voice said from the doorway. I looked up and recoiled at the sight of my attacker. The man who had tortured me for hours without pause walked towards me with a look that frightened me. He was still wearing the navy suit he had worn for most of the night, although now he had abandoned the bloodstained coat, his white shirt still a pristine backdrop to his black tie. A pearl-tipped tie-pin gleamed in the harsh fluorescent overhead lights.

He held in his hands a pair of scissors.

I refused to cry out, to struggle, to even move. If he wanted me to be afraid, he was going to have to try harder to get a response. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

Which was why I was so caught off guard when he cut the zip ties that bound my ankles to the metal chair legs.

His fingers brushed lightly over the raw flesh on my ankle, before he dug his thumbnail into the tender flesh. I hissed, kicking out instinctively before he picked me up, released me from the chair completely, although my wrists were still cuffed behind my back. He threw me down on the ground hard enough to rattles my cracked ribs and knock the wind out of me.

“The boss had to step out to take care of some business. So it’s just you and me. Isn’t that nice?”

I was horrified as he came at me again, pinning me down while his scissors made quick work of cutting away the panties underneath my dress.

This time I did scream. I kicked and shoved with all my strength, but he just laughed as he undid his belt. He rose off me just slightly as he worked on the zipper of his trousers, and I rose my knee up and struck him soundly in the crotch. He groaned, and I used the advantage to rise up into a sitting position, head-butting him, my face rebounding as it grazed along his shirt, leaving the crisp white shirt smeared with blood.

I had stolen his tie-pin between my teeth, and I spit it out on the ground before feigning falling onto my back so I could catch it in my hand.

But the disgusting man was still conscious, and he was still going to rape me. I could bide my time and wait to pick the lock, but he would rape me as I held my possible escape hidden in my hand. He rose to his feet, and drew back his feet, ready to kick me in the face, when a voice drifted into the room.

“Sebastian, I think that’s enough,” Moriarty said as he entered the room again, the man retreating to the other end of the room before exiting through the door.

I looked up in the corner where the camera was placed and noticed it was recording again. I didn’t know for how long. I hoped Sherlock hadn’t witnessed what just transpired. I couldn’t bear it.

“Since clearly you’re too tempting to be kept in a chair, I think I am going to need to add more security to your person,” Moriarty said. He had been kneeling next to me on the ground his features sympathetic although the sentiment didn’t reach his eyes.

On cue, two men entered the room, men I had never seen before, and between them they carried a vest. Only it wasn’t any ordinary vest. Attached to it was a bomb.