Amnesia: Unknown [a Tom Hiddleston / Jonathan Pine, Jim Moriarty fanfiction]

[1]

From the moment you pulled into the driveway, you knew there was something off.

He had called for you to come straight home after work. No explanation, no "I love you" before the hang up. Just a plain, "Don't ask any questions. Come here immediately." You were worried, for he never spoke so harshly with you.

What made it worse was his line of work. From the moment you started dating, he would have to disappear spontaneously, sometimes to foreign countries, based on the higher pricing you noticed being added to your phone bill; cancel plans you made weeks in advance, dates he promised you he wouldn't skip but somehow managed to fall through, including your own wedding; act suspiciously, as if stepping on eggshells, whispering sometimes for phone calls and looking over his shoulder whenever he was with you. Every time you asked about it, he would give you a long roundabout answer, and frankly, you just weren't buying international business corporate anymore.

But this was more than all of that. This was the door being so slightly ajar, anyone could have missed that sliver of a crack that it was still open. This was the curtains being drawn, curtains you never shut because of a wine stain, that so coincidently seemed to be missing from view. This was the garage light being on inside when you never used it, Tom always telling you to stay out of it for changing reasons.

This was because, even from twenty five feet away, you could see a small speck of red liquid on the doorknob, and you were worried it had belonged to him.

You tried calling the police, but each time you dialed, the line would drop dead, silence your only answer. You tried again from the house phone, but the same response followed. No neighbors were home, as far as you could tell, and this only increased your anxiety. As a last resort before you traveled to the nearest business, you called Tom, hoping at least someone would answer.

"Listen closely."

"Who are you?"

"Friends of your husband," was your response, even though you knew it was a lie.

"Where's Tom?"

"He's a little tied up. Would you like to say hello?"

"Yes."

"Yes what? Have you forgotten your manners?"

"Says the people who broke into my house and disabled the phone lines."

There had been signs of a struggle. Most of the furniture was either knocked over and/or broken into various parts. Pictures were torn off the walls, and the walls were scratched up, banged against, chipped, and bled over; there were splatters of blood various places, and what scared you the most was that your name was scratched into the wood floor.

"Now if we disabled the phone lines, would you be able to call."

"You know what I meant."

"Be hospitable, Mrs. Hiddleston. Your husband did not do so well, and look where it got him."

You swallowed hard. If there was any way of hearing, let alone seeing, Tom again, it would have to be following their wishes to the best of your ability and for Tom's safety.

"May I speak to Tom...please."

"That's better." You could hear the phone being shoved to him, hearing his heavy breathing and knowing he had been and was continuing to be tortured.

"Tom?"

"(Y/N)...don't...wor--argh!" Chills ran down your spine as you heard him grunt in pain, trying to hold his composure, but failing ever so slowly.

"Tom, what are they doing to you?"

"Cigarettes...Doc's." There was a scuffle, and a loud grunt you knew could only come from him.

"Now listen carefully, Mrs. Hiddleston," said a voice different from the first. "Your husband won't give us what we're looking for, but contact the authorities, miss a contact time, make one wrong step, and we'll make sure it was the last mistake he's ever made. Are we understood?"

"Yes, but you'll have to promise me I talk to him every hour so I know you'll keep your word."

"You will get further instructions in one hour in Central Park, under the overpass. Do not be late, or his head will meet the slate."