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

[3]

Tom's POV

It hurt to open my left eye, and it hurt even more as I craned my neck upward. What was that pain in the stomach? Was I bleeding? I couldn't tell, an overwhelming pain resonating in the back-right of my head. Must've been where the gun hilt made contact before I blacked out from the blow.

Behind my back, my wrists strained against the lining of duct tape, and out in front, my legs fight to break from the plastic of zip-ties that bound me to a metal chair. Even the chair itself wouldn't give way, having been bolted to the floor.

From the tears in my sleeves, I can see my skin beneath. Where the cuts were, bruises had formed around them, a deep purple and swelling black have already called my upper arms home. With my tongue, I poke the inside of my cheek, and an instantly shot of pain rockets to my brain. Bruises had littered my body.

How long have I been here?

Actually more importantly, Where is here?

Apparently, I had been transported from an abandoned warehouse to a room with nothing but crisp white walls and a black, wooden floor, shiny with polyurethane. A single solitary light hung ahead, as if a spotlight on my tormented state. It looked like the room was a canvas just waiting for a splatter of my body's red paint, and time was just ticking away carelessly.

(Y/N).

My heart started beating even more rapidly. What's going to happen to her? Have they found her, or worse, hurt her in any way? If not, how was I going to explain my injuries, let alone the absence, the hasty phone call, and the state of the house? How was I going to explain without endangering her?

But in a way, I always knew something like this was bound to happen. I just didn't expect it to be so soon.

As I sniff, I go to lick my lips, in hope of smelling or tasting something in the air that would give me a sense of location, a sense of how I can possibly escape. But duct tape circled my head around my mouth, everything smelled like new paint, so, of course, that could mean anything, the history of the room, whether new or old, being glossed over to the grey area of theories.

It was then that the door in front of me unlocked, and a fully armed guard came in. I wasn't frightened by the guns or the grenades I knew could kill me in mere seconds, but my heart pounded when I saw a phone lie in her hands as she ripped the duct tape off my mouth.

"It's for you."

A thousand thoughts raced in my mind, a million possible potential conversations that could proceed, but only one I would have.

"Where is she?"

"The boss hasn't given you permission to speak yet." Another middle man?

"If he wants to talk to me, then why doesn't he come here himself?"

There was a moment of silence, a collaboration behind the scenes I would be deaf to. Then she spoke again.

"He'll be with you in a moment."

And just as the last word trickled off her tongue, the door opened again, the guard exiting while a well-dressed man came in adjusting his suit. Patent leather shoes, sharp cologne of sandalwood, but still with a hint of grass and car exhausts.

He must have came from a populated area roughly about twelve hours ago. The grass smelled newer, maybe about a few hours old? That could mean anything, could be as simple as a front lawn.

Wait, that's (Y/N)'s lotion. I can smell it every time he moves his hands.

My blood begins to boil, and he knows it, a smirk cracking in the corner of his mouth. He was formulating just how to break me, how to turn the person, whose voice I want to hear and whose hands I want to hold, and remnants of her into the very things I wished weren't present. For the scent of her meant he had access to her.

She was my self-destruction button, and he's dancing around the trigger.

"Jonathan Pine," the man says, an Irish accent easing nonchalantly from his mouth.

"Jim Moriarty."