Daylight

Part 2

Sherlock woke up an hour after John hit him with the butt of his gun.  He found himself still handcuffed to his chair in the sitting room of 221B Baker St. 

     “Wake up, Sherlock,” he heard a voice say.  It wasn’t John and Sherlock did not want to obey.

    “Wherez John?” he half moaned, half mumbled  “John?”

     His vision returned at he saw two large men in street clothes appear in the doorway.  “About time you two got here,” the voice that woke him up snarled at them.

     Sherlock felt rough hands undo the cuffs and lift him up to a standing position.  “Time to get up now, Pet,” the voice insisted.  “We need to leave.  Careful, Boys!” said the voice again.  “We don’t want him damaged.  Not when I have such delightful ideas for that myself.”

     James Moriarty sounded like that, Sherlock thought as tried to clear out the rest of the fuzz from his thoughts.  And on the heels of that thought he remembered that John hadhit him, and that shook him back to full awareness.  “John!”

     “Now, now, darling” Jim said stroking Sherlock’s high, strong cheek bone with a soft, well-manicured fingertip.  “I’ve got what I what I came here for.  It’s a fair deal, Sherlock,” Jim drawled sensuously ignoring Sherlock’s confused and wounded look.

     Jim’s men held him suspended between them, gripped by his upper arms, feet nearly dangling as he tried to stand up and keep his balance.  When he got his bearings back, he tried struggling against their firm holds, but it did no good.  His head hurt and he couldn’t see John anywhere.  Where had he gone?

     Jim hooked a finger into the collar around Sherlock’s neck and for the first time, it seemed to register that he might be in a great deal of trouble.  “Tut, I’ve got the remote control, Sherlock.”

     The collar.  Then, the vague memory of John’s words floated back into his mind, “I’ll never forget you.  But, I hope you do forget me.  And, I hope Moriarty teaches you a little humility.  Good luck, Sherlock,” and he bowed his head in despair from the memory. 

     “Let’s get him back to headquarters,” Jim said and left the Baker Street flat dragging Sherlock along with him. 

     The two men hustled Sherlock into a waiting car.  Jim sat in front and now it was Sherlock’s turn to be crammed between two sweaty men of rather indiscriminate hygiene.  Sherlock didn’t know what was happening to his insides as he thought about John’s betrayal.  Part of him knew that the justice John had taken on him was fair and right.  He had, after all, kept him prisoner, taken away his dignity and even coerced him into sex.  But the rest of him felt rage.  How could John think of giving him over to his worst enemy?  Sherlock still loved him fiercely.  Even in his rage, he felt the agony of being parted from John and could only close his eyes as the idea of his getting further and further away washed over him.  He’d get the man back if it was the last thing he ever did. 

     Sherlock remembered little of the ride to Moriarty’s headquarters.  He sat between his captors and refused to open his eyes.  He could feel the light weight of the collar around his throat and it galled him.  One press of Jim’s finger and the collar around his neck would blow, and he’d bleed out unceremoniously.   This was never supposed to be his fate.  He was far too clever, too important to land in this humiliating position.  Yet, here he was.  Even remembering that Mycroft could use the tracking chip in the collar to locate him gave him little hope now.  Jim had too many resources at his disposal and he would know about the chip. 

     “Let’s make a quick stop,” Jim said along the way.  “We’ve got to switch out that collar with one of mine. Oh, and blindfold him.”

     Sherlock groaned.  Of course Moriarty knew about the tracking chip.  His fate now rested entirely in his enemy’s hands.

    

     When they arrived at Jim’s headquarters, Sherlock had the new collar in place.  This one had the initials J.M. on it in gold lettering. 

     “Bring him to my suite,” he told the men guiding Sherlock through the back entrance of a nondescript warehouse.  Even though he’d been blindfolded, Sherlock knew they were somewhere near the shore the Thames just outside of London.  He had unconsciously counted the number of turns in his head and could smell the river nearby.  The blindfold had slipped a bit and he could see through a small portion of it.  He thought he could pinpoint the exact street if he caught a glimpse of … yes the building to his left had once contained a counterfeiting operation.  He’d cracked that case a year ago and now knew exactly where he was.  It cheered him slightly that Jim thought he might not be able to figure out his exact location.

     The men half-carried, half drug him through hallways until they reached a section of the warehouse that had been richly appointed as a living space.  One of them removed the blindfold and Sherlock took in the tastefully decorated rooms that surely belonged to James Moriarty.  Jim himself sat behind a large modern desk, hands placed squarely on the surface looking at him. 

     “Sit down,” Jim said leveling his gaze at Sherlock. 

     Sherlock weighed his options.  He could try to run but the two men standing guard at the door and the collar around his neck made that option impossible.  So, he sat. 

     His heart still ached at the thought of John’s betrayal.  He’d done everything he could to keep his friend safe and he’d thought that John might just have begun to accept his new life as Sherlock’s lover.  Mycroft had assured him when the collar experiment had begun, that John would come around, grow fond of him and even love him.  He’d just have to be patient and gradually allow John more and more freedoms. They would have been back to their customary, crime solving unity soon enough with some added benefits.  And, the idea of leaving would have been tempered out of John permanently.  It would have worked if it hadn’t been for Moriarty’s interference.  Sherlock found he still couldn’t bring himself to hate John.  Even now, John still fascinated him, a perfect puzzle whose complexity grew instead of diminished over time. 

     “He isn’t coming back, Sherlock,” Jim said softly.  “I know you’re attached to him…”

     “You know nothing about me,” Sherlock ground out harshly.  “I don’t care if you do have this collar on me, don’t try to pretend you care about my relationship with ….” Sherlock couldn’t finish that thought.  He no longer had a relationship with John.  He’d blown that chance away forever.  “Don’t pretend you care.  And don’t try to console me!  Just get on with whatever you intend to do.” he ended fiercely. 

     Jim nodded at him evenly.  His slightly widened eyes continued their relentless gaze until he broke it suddenly and said to his men, “Take him to the room at the end of the hallway.”